


The Memory of Us

by AvoidingAverage



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Bucky Barnes, BAMF Steve Rogers, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Steve Rogers, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Friends to Enemies, Friends to Lovers, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Mutual Pining, Nomad Steve Rogers, Pining, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Natasha Romanov, Relationship(s), Slow Burn, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers as the Winter Soldier, Steve is a big softie but I love him, Temporary Character Death, Winter Soldier Steve Rogers, some torture, some violence, stucky for life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-07-24 12:36:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 45,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16175210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvoidingAverage/pseuds/AvoidingAverage
Summary: "Steve’s eyes are blue.Blue as the worn thread they’d used to patch the holes in the hand-me-down sweater he’d worn the day Bucky had left him in search of honor and glory across the sea. Blue as the sky he’d caught sight of through the smoke and shrapnel over the hell that was life in the trenches. A jarring, beautiful thing that had no place existing alongside the cries of the dead and dying boys and bits of men scattered about."In an unexpected attack, Steve Rogers is taken by Hydra to replace the Winter Soldier.  Bucky is forced to face his inner demons and a Steve Rogers who no longer knows him.  The Avengers will be forced to bring down one of their greatest heroes--Captain America himself.





	1. Longing

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and thank you for clicking on my story! 
> 
> This is my very first Stucky fic and I AM SO EXCITED to release it after working on it for so long. The MCU has SO many amazing authors and readers out there so I hope this story stands up to their high standards. (I may have read roughly six hundred thousand of your stories while I was writing this and loved everyone of them).
> 
> Special shoutout to my beta reader for helping me get this ready! I love you--you're amazing!

Steve’s eyes are blue. 

Blue as the worn thread they’d used to patch the holes in the hand-me-down sweater he’d worn the day Bucky had left him in search of honor and glory across the sea. Blue as the sky he’d caught sight of through the smoke and shrapnel over the hell that was life in the trenches. A jarring, beautiful thing that had no place existing alongside the cries of the dead and dying boys and bits of men scattered about. 

If you were close enough, you could see the faint specks of green hidden there, like the reflections of trees on the surface of two endless oceans. If asked, Bucky could spend days mapping out every line and color variation in them. Trusted them in a way that he could never trust himself.

He’d thought of those eyes often during the war, late in the night after first watch was over and, if they were lucky, the world was quiet.. And again in the face of the countless strangers watching his helpless pain in a forgotten lab underground, where he drowned in Zola’s dead eyes and cruel smiles. 

Even now, decades later, Bucky still woke up most nights covered in sweat and fear and so damned convinced that he was back in that hell. It took all of the coping tools Sam had suggested to keep him from screaming or disappearing again in the haze that was the Winter Soldier. To focus on the things he knew when his mind was an ugly mixture of Hydra’s conditioning and the man he once was. It was better to start with the things he knew were the truth before wading into the maze of blood and pain and death that had followed. 

And so, Bucky created a list of everything he needed to know was true in the simple leather journal that Same provided.

Steve’s eyes are blue. 

He did not die in that plane, buried in the Arctic. He survived.

Steve found him. 

Bucky was a person now--not an asset.

But some nights even his usual mantras weren’t enough to keep that crushing panic at bay and then he was forced to leave his bedroom to pad silently across the hall to where Steve slept. 

It still felt strange to think that all this space was theirs after so many years struggling in a one room apartment or crammed into a bunker. The space felt empty. He didn’t like the walls of windows that looked out over the Manhattan skyline or the stylish attempts by some designer to make it seem like it was anything similar to where they’d grown up. It was too open to be able to secure between just two men. 

But then, they weren’t really men anymore. Bucky even less so.

Most nights it was enough for Bucky to watch the rise and fall of Steve’s chest and marvel at how much he’d changed and yet remained the same after so long. Steve was bigger than the boy Bucky had punched Bobby Newton in the nose to save, but he knew the same stubborn unwillingness to run from a fight was embedded deep in his bones beyond even the serum’s reach. 

Bucky hesitated at the door, instinctively testing his hold on the Winter Soldier. Though Sam had assured him that Hydra’s conditioning would wear off, Bucky was still too unsure to move closer than the door, even when nightmares rode him hard. Never with Steve.

As if sensing his presence, Steve groaned and peeked one of those glorious eyes at Bucky, “You okay, Buck?”

“Yeah, Steve.” Nevermind that his voice was hoarse from controlling the screams that lived immortal in his dreams.

Steve stared at him for a long moment before wordlessly scooting over on the bed, surrendering the warm cocoon he’d created for Bucky to lay down. It was still strange to wake up in a bed alone, even after all the years as Hydra’s assassin. Seemed the years he’d spent trying to keep his skinny neighbor from shivering to death each time he got sick was embedded in his soul.

As Bucky stared up at the plain ceiling of Captain America’s bedroom, he listened to Steve’s breath as it evened out in sleep. He idly wondered if he could even remember all the times he’d whispered ‘I love you’ into the ear of the hopelessly brave kid he was now sharing a bed with.

Daylight was easier. Then he could see the happiness twinkling in Steve’s eyes when he made some sarcastic comment like he had before. Could watch the pink flush that spread over his skin each time Bucky ‘accidentally’ touched his thigh or leaned just a bit too close. That much hadn’t changed after all these years. 

They’d fallen into a pattern in Stark Towers. Waking up at dawn with a soldier’s consistency, eating breakfast while chatting about nothing, then heading to the massive gym two floors down. These were the rhythms his body remembered even when his mind got confused and tangled. Staying active helped, according to Sam, and Bucky could admit that it helped to chase away the lingering darkness of the night as well as his own bloody memories. He’d even cut his hair into something a little closer to the style he’d worn back in Brooklyn. It’d been worth it to watch the way Steve’s face lit up like the Fourth of July. 

It made him feel human again. 

The first few weeks they were constantly surrounded by various members of Steve’s new team. Their eyes were just a touch too wary to pass as casual encounters when they were working out or stopping by for a chat in Steve’s apartment. Clint liked to appear in their apartment unannounced as though he expected them to be fighting tooth and nail if he didn’t check in on them. But even though Clint’s hovering grated on Bucky’s last nerve. It was infinitely better than Stark and Banner attempting to lure him in for test after test in the hopes of uncovering some sort of miracle that would keep him from becoming a mass murderer again.

Bucky didn’t blame them for their suspicions or their protectiveness of Steve’s too trusting soul. He’d nearly killed him once and that was enough to keep Bucky pacing away every night, praying those nightmares would go away. Trying to convince himself that he was no longer merely an asset. He was a person again.

Natasha, unsurprisingly, had been the hardest to convince that they were both equally concerned with keeping Steve alive. The spy knew the red that dripped from his ledger was as dark as her own. She never mentioned the years he’d spent training the Red Room’s favored pupil and he was careful not to breach that trust. He could appreciate her protective streak for her comrades, even if it was her pragmatic side that was of the most value to him.

When Bucky needed to be put down, it would be Natasha who fired the bullet.

It’d taken weeks of his best behavior and, he suspected, Steve’s needling, before Natasha finally stopped following him any time she was in the Tower. Openly. Bucky knew she continued to keep tabs on him, but he couldn’t get mad at her when Steve so openly wore his his heart on his sleeve. Always had.

When dawn’s first light streaked through the window, Bucky’s heart was thumping a steady rhythm in his chest again. Steve was still snoring softly beside him, but he knew that wouldn’t last much longer. They both slept better bunking together, but Steve still only managed a few hours most nights. Too many nightmares between the both of them.

It shouldn’t be so easy to slip out of the bed without moving the mattress enough to wake the man next to him, but it was probably the gentlest way to use the skills he was trained in. Bucky slipped into the kitchen and pulled out a tray of eggs and bacon from the fridge, still in the soft t-shirt and shorts he wore to keep Steve from being reminded of the patchwork of scars on his chest. 

Quickly, he tossed a few slices of meat into the skillet and cracked a dozen eggs into a large bowl to scramble. Steve ate like a pig, and was meaner than a snake if he didn’t get any coffee in him before he attempted to interact with living creatures. He liked to blame his appetite on the serum burning off calories, but Bucky remembered mornings back in Brooklyn where he’d been sorely tempted to sock Steve in the mouth after one too many sniping remarks.

The thought wiggled free a memory of the day the Commandos had been forced to watch Steve recording hours of PSAs about “Eating Three Squares Meals A Day, So You’ll Be Ready to Serve Your Country” and similar nonsense. Darnier and the others had laughed themselves hoarse at the sight of Steve’s discomfort in his too-clean uniform in front of a wall of cameras. 

Bucky had thought he looked beautiful.

By the time the coffee was beginning to gurgle through the filter, Steve was padding out of his bedroom and stretching out the the kinks in his back. Bucky focused very carefully on not watching the flex of muscle on full display or wondering how easy it would be to run his fingers down the low-slung waistband of Steve’s pajama pants. His left arm spasmed oddly at his side and he had to press it flat against the counter to avoid reaching out. Wordlessly, he passed Steve the first cup of coffee and began to fill another for himself. 

“Rough night?” Steve asked after sighing happily when the caffeine began to cycle through his system.

Bucky shrugged.

“Worried about the callout today?” 

“No.” An arched eyebrow told Bucky that he wasn’t fooling his friend, but he didn’t feel like expanding on his thoughts. “Are any of the others running this op?”

Steve ran his fingers through his hair, tugging at the length in a way that said he didn’t like how long Stark’s stylists had cut it. Bucky’s fingers itched to do the same. “Natasha and Clint are still on training duty with the new Shield recruits, I believe, and Sam is speaking at the VA in the city.”

That left Stark on standby if anything went south. 

Steve set the table while Bucky dished up the food and they settled in to eat with the same determined pace that a lifetime of scrounging to get by had taught them. 

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

The gentle question surprised Bucky enough that he paused with a slice of bacon halfway to his mouth. Anxiety bloomed in his chest, and he was forced to look down at his eggs. “You know what it will take for me to be comfortable working against Hydra,” Bucky finally muttered.

Steve flinched. “I’m not going to shoot you if it looks like you’re compromised.”

“I’d rather die than let them use me again, and I’ve killed enough innocents already,” he bit out, “I won’t do it again.”

There was a fierce sort of determination on Steve’s face. “I won’t let them take you again, Buck.”

“You won’t have a choice,” Bucky snapped. “They say the right words and I’ll kill you myself.”

“You’d never hurt me.”

“I’m tempted to punch you right now.”

Steve grinned, fast and fleeting, “You’re always tempted to do that.”

Bucky made a disgusted sound, abandoning his half-finished meal for Steve to finish, and walked back into his rooms to take a shower and get dressed. 

Even now it was a struggle not to let his mind slip into the old patterns of the Winter Soldier. To clear his mind of useless emotions and give himself over to the thrill of the hunt, the kill. His fingers brushed over the uniform that had appeared the morning after he’d told Fury he was ready to go back in the field if it meant wiping out Hydra. They’d kept the basic design of the Russians —one sleeve cut short to give his left arm full range of motion and a high, reinforced collar to protect him from getting his throat slit — and only bothered to replace the sigil of the Soviets with a matte black version of Cap’s uniform. 

What he truly enjoyed about his new position in Stark Towers, besides Steve, was the gadgets Stark seemed to constantly design and redesign. He’d given him a whole basket full of treats after Sam cleared him for duty. Clever little bombs and weapons that would have been devastating in the brainwashed Winter Soldier’s hands and even a new arm made of the same vibranium as Steve’s shield.

The only thing Bucky had kept from the billionaire was his MTs-116 suppressed sniper rifle he’d received as a bonus for killing three yakuza bosses in a single twenty four hour period. Shot like a dream too—or a nightmare depending on which end of the barrel you were on. His hand hesitated over the familiar shape before settling on the Dragunov instead. It was a lighter model and would be of more use in a close range fight if he needed more firepower. 

By the time he’d tucked away his body’s weight in weapons around his body, Steve was knocking on his door. “It’s the prettiest dames who take the longest,” his friend quipped with one broad shoulder leaned against the door frame. 

“You’re still such a punk.”

“Jerk.”

They shared a grin and exited the apartment. By the time they reached their rendezvous point with Maria Hill, their humor was gone, replaced by the adrenaline-laced anticipation that predated a good fight. 

“Gentlemen,” she shouted over the roar of an approaching helicopter, “we have intel on a Hydra cell active only a few hours away.”

“That close?” Steve asked incredulously. 

“Our agent thinks they may be trying to make a move on an incoming shipment of weapons that are scheduled to arrive today. We want you to intercept them.”

“So why the helicopter?”

“There's a chance they may make their move in the sky. Fury’s ordered one of the smaller helicarriers to provide support since Thor and Stark are gone. Helicopter will drop you off. Should be a simple job, in and out.”

Simple enough for a fucked up monster to manage.

Steve nodded and glanced at Bucky to signal he was ready to get going. Within a few minutes, the speedy little craft had set them down on the narrow concourse of the helicarrier. Several S.H.E.I.L.D. agents waved at Steve in greeting and Bucky ignored the nervous way they still stared at him. He concentrated on the plates beneath his feet that ensured the carrier remained invisible against the cloudless sky.

“Come on,” Steve said, “let’s find the command deck.”

The last time Bucky had been on one of these helicarriers, he’d been trying to kill Captain America. The thought made him grim and silent as they made their way below deck. He could feel his nerves beginning to fray at the claustrophobic sensation of the steel closing in around him like countless bunkers in hundreds of forgotten cities. 

Something must have shown on his face because Steve abruptly pulled him into a room with a few startled looking janitors. “Take five, guys,” he muttered and they scrambled to obey a request from Captain America, edging around Bucky like his kind of crazy was contagious.

When they were gone, Bucky moved to the large windows set into one wall, finding his footing at the sight of the open sky around them. It took a few minutes before he could breathe past the panic in his chest and think. Zola and Lukin had never felt it necessary to allow their asset to live in anything the didn’t resemble a tomb or a cage. Just stored him like a weapon he was until they needed him again. A burst of anger at the thought had the plates of his arm shifting into place in preparation for a fight, but the only target he had was himself.

Steve was a silent presence behind him, waiting for him to sort through the tangled web of his thoughts.

“Bucky,” he finally said, “if you aren’t comfortable doing this --”

“I am,” Bucky replied firmly. “I’m fine.”

“Maybe we’re rushing things here. You’ve got more reason than anyone to have a break.”

“I don’t need a break,” he bit out, “I need to rip Hydra apart with my bare hands.” His left arm twitched in preparation for violence.

Steve held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Alright, alright. Just...tell me if it’s too much.”

There was a long moment of silence before Bucky nodded and turned away from the window. “Let’s go,” he said quickly.

Steve hesitated before nodding slowly and turning back to the hallway. Bucky pretended not to notice the way his friend continued to cast worried glances at him as they continued onto the command deck.

The command center was surprisingly calm compared to his last experience in a helicarrier, though Bucky supposed that was a bit of an anomaly. The room jutted out of the front of the ship in a perfect orb of glass looking over the rows of houses and streets that marked end of the suburbs. It looked peaceful.

A few officers chatted quietly at their stations and a sharply dressed man with the double white bars of a senior officer on his arm perked up at the sight of them. “Captain,” he said with a quick salute, “we are so honored to have you on board. I am the navigations officer on duty, First Lieutenant McKittrick”

The man’s eyes darted to the gleaming metal of Bucky’s left arm. Lingered.

“At ease,” Steve smiled politely, “We appreciate you giving us a lift. How soon should we reach the drop point?”

“We’ll be there in under an hour. Please, make yourselves comfortable.”

Bucky wandered away from their quick discussion of the mission parameters to the bank of computer screens nearby and stared at the endless stream of data. After a while, Steve ambled over and they watched the map showing their coordinates shift minutely as the carrier moved. “Sure beats moving those little figurines around that giant map they had during the war.”

Behind them, Bucky listened to McKittrick radio in that “Captain America and the Winter Soldier were on board.” His lips pursed into a thin line.

“I liked the old maps,” he finally muttered. “Even if they were wrong half the time -- they had character.” Simpler times.

Steve laughed, “Remember that time they sent us to the village that didn’t exist?”

Steve’s laugh was becoming an obsession and he felt his chest swell at the thought that he was still capable of such a thing. But he knew better than to stare to long. So he smiled the smile of a man long dead and shook his head, “At least the weather was nice.”

It had snowed for the whole march. 

And taken them hours to thaw out their frozen boots and socks by the fire they’d fed bits of broken furniture. Steve and Bucky had ended up huddled together in a shivering mess under the moth eaten blankets they’d found in the basement of the abandoned house where they took cover. Too cold to sleep much so they’d spent the night sitting as close as possible to their tiny fire, drinking the last of the liquor Bucky had lifted from the NCO locker at base, and reminiscing.

It was the last night they’d spent together before Bucky was taken.

Steve’s expression went soft, edged with an old grief. Then it disappeared behind the polite mask of Captain America when McKittrick returned with a nervous smile. 

“Sir, there’s a message waiting for you on the secure com line.”

“Lead the way.”

The lieutenant continued to babble on as they left the main deck into one of the narrower side corridors. Steve had changed in the years since he’d fallen, grown into the role of Captain America. Clearly the shy, stubborn kid from Brooklyn was long gone. He walked with a new confidence that made Bucky’s heart ache with the realization that maybe he wasn’t the only one who’d lost a part of himself in the war.

He hung back, content to watch Steve’s back and avoid scaring off more S.H.E.I.L.D. personel. It was something the old Bucky had done with a hint of frustration, joking about being invisible when Cap was around, but now he was glad for the time to breathe. He didn’t like the gushing lieutenant, with his lingering eyes and nervous sweat, and he couldn’t risk killing an innocent before he got his shot at Hydra.

There was a whisper of sound behind him and he turned, frowning at the empty hallway behind him. Every one of his senses was shrieking in alarm.

Something was wrong.

“Желание.” The word was a sibilant hiss ripped from the framework of his nightmares and projected through the intercom system on the ship.

The gun was in his hand before the thought was formed in his mind, comforting in a way the familiar sound of gunfire at his back was not. Whirling down to one knee, he shot a perfect triangle into the chest of McKittrick The man stumbled, eyes wide and blood bubbling from his mouth before he collapsed in a boneless heap.

Steve stared at the man for a beat, shield in his hands and eyes scanning for the next threat. “You still with me, Bucky?”

Words were difficult, but he forced them past gritted teeth anyway. “Yes.”

Except someone on this vessel knew the words that would turn him into a mindless killing machine.

Steve nodded once and started forward, but stumbled in an oddly graceless maneuver. Bucky caught him on instinct, eyes still on the ends of the hallway where he knew their next attackers would be forced to funnel in. The hallway limited the enhancements the serum would give them in a fight and Bucky wasn’t stupid enough to assume that was a coincidence. There was nothing they could use for cover and he knew even before his fingers wrapped around the nearest door handle that they were locked out. 

They were sitting ducks.

“Were you hit?” he asked Steve quickly and felt his eyes narrow at the dark stain spreading across the blue of his uniform. Too close to the spine to be ignored, a clinical part of his mind decided. “Can you move?”

“Stupid,” Steve breathed with a self depreciating shake of his head, “I let him get the drop on me because I was checking on you. McKittrick was a plant.”

“Clever as usual, Rogers.” 

“Jerk.” When Bucky began to pull the material of Steve’s uniform up to inspect his injury, Steve shoved his hands away impatiently, “I’m fine. We need to get moving.”

“We won’t get anywhere fast if I have to haul your unconscious body after you pass out from blood loss,” Bucky grumbled, but his fingers were gentle when he applied the special pressure bandages he’d tucked away in his pack. Almost instantly the clotting gel filled the hole left behind by the bullet, but he knew it wouldn’t hold for long. The painkillers wouldn’t do much for Steve’s enhanced immune system, but the adrenaline should keep the worst of the pain at bay until they were back on the ground.

Steve winced but didn’t otherwise complain as Bucky doctored him. When he was finished, Bucky squatted next to the still body of their attacker and fished through his pockets. He tucked the man’s handgun into his empty holster and took the spare clip left in one of his pockets. His fingers hit the edge of a piece of paper so he pulled it out to frown at the contents.

It was a picture of him. Clearly taken at some distance on one of the few excursions he and Steve had taken around New York City. Steve’s back was turned to the cameraman, but Bucky recognized his own face, smiling up at the man beside him. The image was distorted when his hand spasmed and he forced himself to tuck it into one of the pockets in his pants.

“This was a set up.”

Really he shouldn’t be so offended that Hydra thought one assassin was enough to take out the Winter Soldier.

Steve’s normally cheerful expression was washed away by the banked rage Bucky had witnessed the day his friend had pulled him out of Zola’s lab. “We need to get to the command deck before they try to use your triggers.”

They exchanged a glance and Bucky watched Steve’s mouth press into a firm line. He knew it would be safer if they split up to limit the casualties. If he lost control, he wanted Steve as far from ground zero as possible. But he also knew Steve would never let him leave again.

The sound of running footsteps took away that option. Bucky ducked behind Steve’s shield to avoid the spray of gunfire slamming into the metal all around them. Steve grunted with effort and hurled the shield down the hallway where it ricocheted off several of their attackers before catching it neatly.

It was confusing to see the S.H.E.I.L.D. uniforms firing at him again. Made him question if he had slipped back into the dull numbness of the Winter Soldier again, or worse--that all of this was just another dream.

The pain was real though when he leaned a little too far out of Steve’s shield and felt a bullet rip a stinging line across his bicep. Oddly, it helped center him enough that his next three shots found their marks easily with a spray of bone and blood. He glanced down the hallway at their back with a frown while he reloaded, “We need to get out of this hallway before we get pinned.”

“On three,” Steve said quietly. “One, two…”

“Three!” Bucky stood, tossing one of his grenades in a smooth motion toward the center of the cluster of agents firing at them. They raced down the opposite end of the hallway with Steve’s shield blocking the few bullets fired their way before an explosion rocked the ship.

The world repainted itself in shades of red fire and dark smoke. Bucky blinked, sound oddly muffled like he was underwater until he shook his head roughly. A strong arm wrapped around his bicep and he looked up to see Steve, blood running down one side of his face and covered in soot. He watched his friends mouth move with a sluggish blink before the panic in those blue eyes had him on his feet and scouring the hallway for any threats.

“---the hell was in that?” Steve yelled, his voice muffled against the roar of a fire that the ship’s emergency systems were currently attempting to put off.

“Dunno,” Bucky grunted as they hobbled down the corridor. “Stark gave them to me.”

“That explains it.”

They were forced to circle around the maze of corridors to avoid the scattering of people hurrying around the ship now in response to the fire and their presence. One look at Steve’s stubborn face answered the question of whether they should shoot first and ask questions later. Bucky had only shaken his head, trying not to miss the days where his conscience wasn’t buried beneath layers of mindless violence.

One step onto the command deck made it clear just who was in control of the helicarrier now. Eight armed guards opened fire as soon as Steve stepped through the door frame and only a quick block with his shield kept them from sporting several new holes in their bodies. 

Bucky’s eyes went wide with horror when one of the pale faced agents reached into his pocket and began to read off a piece of paper, “Желание…”

Without hesitation, Bucky fired two shots that had the man crumpling to the ground in a boneless heap. Methodically, he turned his weapons on the rest of the group, only pausing to reload and count shots. His mind slipped into the calm numbness of the Winter Soldier with frightening ease and abruptly he craved more than the familiar kick of the gun in his hand. When it clicked to empty, he threw the weapon hard at the soldier closest to him and followed it with a vicious kick to the gut that left him heaving on the ground.

Steve made a annoyed sound when Bucky stepped free of the protection of his shield and lunged for the closest soldier. His arm latched around the man’s neck, using the momentum to sling his opponent into the nearest comm panel. He heard a whistle of wind and ducked in time to avoid getting knocked out by Steve’s shield as it slammed into a woman trying to sneak up behind him. Steve dropped the last of the agents with a well-timed one-two punch that Bucky had spent the better part of a week teaching him back in France.

“The carrier has been compromised,” Steve panted into the mic Bucky knew was pinned into the collar of his uniform. “Requesting backup.”

There was a beat of silence broken only by a groan of pain from the soldier Bucky caught trying to reach for the alert button on the nearest control panel.

“Base, do you copy?”

Instead of listening to Steve’s attempts to radio in for help, Bucky went to the most intact panel and frowned down at the scrolling bars of information there. “Steve,” he murmured, not needing to raise his voice to know Steve would hear him, “they’ve jammed all communications on the ship and rigged it to crash.”

Steve bit out a filthy curse that would have shocked Stark. “We can get out using the escape pods and radio in to Tony.”

“We need to move fast. They’ll be expecting that.”

Running down the hallway helped take the edge off the wild energy pulsing beneath his skin, but did little to stop the way his mind kept wanting to slip into the old patterns. Keep moving. Neutralize any threats. Avoid any followers and return to…

Bucky shoved the thought away with a violent shake of his head and forced his muscles to move faster and take care that he didn’t make a sound. “Of all the times for your nosy, interfering friends to disappear…”

Steve snorted, yanking him back from around a corner when the sound of gunfire echoed around them. With a grunt, he hurled his shield down the hallway and Bucky smirked at the the muffled grunts of pain. They ducked into the cleared corridor and jogged to where the line of escape pods waited.

“It looks like they got here first,” Bucky said hurriedly, “They’re damaged enough that I don’t know if they’ll fly. We may have to go for one of the jets on deck.”

He didn’t mention that the odds of them making it that far with Steve wounded were slim.

Steve was looking down the rows of escape pods with a frown, eyeing the damage left behind by the charges Hydra must have set off. His fingers flexed on the handle of his shield in the corner of Bucky’s eye from where he covered the hallway from the next round of Hydra soldiers. 

It was an effort to keep his mentality fixed on the soldier Steve had fought beside for so long instead of the one his enemies had created.

“Come on,” Steve grunted and gestured to the pod at the end of the row, “that one doesn’t look as bad off.”

The red stain on his uniform was growing at a rate that made Bucky want to rip apart a new wave of soldiers with his bare hands. He needed a medic. They needed to get off this damned helicarrier and fast.

Bucky tucked his right arm around Steve’s waist and helped him limp down the corridor, taking his shield in his left. That Steve hadn’t protested his open attempts to shield him from any oncoming attacks told Bucky that his injuries were worse than they appeared. The serum might heal their injuries and keep them on their feet, but it needed time to heal this level of injury.

Footsteps in the distance made him quicken his pace. “Move your ass, Rogers. We’ve got company.”

Steve winced but did as he commanded with the same begrudging acceptance as when they were children. Bucky leaned him up against the wall with a spare gun next to the pod and ran his fingers over the control panel. “Looks like the inner electronics are shot to shit, but I think I can program this to go back to base,” he muttered, punching in series of commands as quickly as he could, metal and flesh working synonymously. “Done.”

“Good.”

Before Bucky could do more that look up at the strange tone in his friend’s voice, Steve was slamming into him with enough force that Bucky’s world went dark for a split second. When he came to it was to the hiss of hydraulics sealing shut the glass shield to the escape pod and locking him inside. He blinked, horror and shock ripping free his hold on the deadly calm he needed to survive this.

“Steve, what the fuck are you doing?” He said evenly, struggling to maintain his control, “Open the pod.”

Steve smiled painfully at him. “I told you I wouldn’t let them take you.” He rested one hand against the reinforced glass like he wanted to cup Bucky’s jaw. “I’m sorry I shoved you,” he winced, weaving on his feet, “...knew you wouldn’t go if I asked.”

“Don’t do this Steve,” Bucky begged, eyes wide with panic at the sound of approaching footsteps, “This isn’t what I want! Please, please, just let me out.”

A calm female voice came on over the pod’s intercom above his head. “Ten seconds until ejection. Please use the safety harness to secure yourself and prepare for takeoff.”

That damned smile faltered and Steve looked away from him down the hallway where he knew Hydra was closing in. Then those blue, blue eyes were staring back at him, leaving him breathless and terrified. “I should have saved you back then, Buck. I should have kept you safe.”

Bucky swallowed hard, trying to force back the images of countless of Zola’s ‘sessions.’ “That wasn’t your fault, Steve. You can’t take the blame for what they did.”

“Yeah, but I can make it right,” he huffed, pressing a hand to the bullet wound Bucky knew must be making him see stars by now, “You were always the better one of us, Buck, always willing to put yourself on the line for me time and time again. Now it’s my turn.”

The damned woman was back, drowning out the sound of inevitability. “Countdown to ejection in ten seconds…”

No. His left arm slammed into the glass, metal plates locking into place with brutal efficiency. The glass cracked, but didn’t budge. There wasn’t enough room in this cramped little cell to get the leverage he needed to force it open or break through. His mind flickered wildly from the present and his futile attempt to free himself from the glass box they’d trapped him in in Bucharest.

“Nine.”

“No, Steve, no!” He was yelling now and damn the consequences. It meant nothing if Steve was... “I won’t go! I won’t let you do this! You--you said we’d stick together till the end of the line!”

It hurt to remind himself of the moments when his mind was not his own and his fists had nearly destroyed the only thing that really mattered.

Steve eyes were tired, blue obscured by the sweep of thick lashes sweeping down. “This is the end of the line, Bucky.”

“Eight.”

Bucky slammed against the glass, over and over, trying to force his way to where Steve finally gave up his fight against gravity and slid to the ground near the gun Bucky had abandoned. It’s the first time in his life he’s seen Steve admit defeat. It drove Bucky wild, brought forward the Winter Soldier but did nothing to stop the inevitable passage of time.

“Seven.”

“NO!” Bucky bellowed again and again, trying to stop the countdown that continued relentlessly. “STEVE!”

“Six.”

Steve fired two shots down the hallway with a grunt. When he looked back at Bucky, there was a terrible sadness in his eyes.

“Five.”

“I wish...we had more time,” Steve whispered, “but I can’t let my best guy die up here.”

“Four.”

“No!” Bucky was crying now, sobbing against the futility of this moment, “I can’t leave you.”

“Three.”

The pod’s engines drowned out the sound of his gasping breaths and Bucky’s fists pounded against the machine encasing him. He could feel the propulsion rockets testing themselves in preparation for flight and he stared back at Steve as though somehow he’ll have changed his mind. Would realize that this was a mistake and open the doors.

“Two.”

Bullets pinged off the metal grating near Steve and he fired off a couple rounds with the steely eyed determination Bucky had seen countless times, in countless unwinnable battles. It felt like he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think past the panic clawing at his throat.

“Steve…”

Steve looked back at him and smiled crookedly, “ I lov--”

Then the bottom dropped out below his escape pod and Bucky was staring at nothing but the mocking blue of the sky.


	2. Rusted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Light references to torture in this chapter, but no more than was discussed in the movie. Be warned.
> 
> Also thanks for reading!!

The whole damn room smelled like rust and death. 

Blood, his fractured mind supplied. The rusty smell was the same blood that mixed with the layers of mud and filth left behind by Azzano. It mixed with the sharp, bitter scent of whatever cleaning agent the dead-eyed soldiers-turned-slaves used to hose down the worst of the mess in here.

The others in the room were gone now. Passed away slowly in wheezing gasps interspersed with plaintive cries for their mothers when the pain became too great. Bucky was glad his mother was in the ground so she wouldn’t be brought into this awful place, even in memory. Instead, his mouth formed the name he’d called out to so many times in his childhood.

_Come on, Stevie. Didn’t you ever learn to pick on someone your own size?_

__

_Steve, Steve, just breathe. Breathe, pal. It’ll pass soon._

__

_This isn’t some back alley, Steve. It’s war!_

When the fire in his veins eased, Bucky forced himself to remember the words he was supposed to say when his arms and legs were chained to a table and faces familiar in their cruelty leaned over him.

“Sergeant James Barnes...Serial 325..5...7.”

The words were harder to find now. His dry tongue struggled to form the words after the last batch of ‘medicine’ they’d pumped into him. 

Some of the other soldiers had believed their lies at first. Thought they were protected behind those bullshit rules of war that Steve had always thought were so _honorable_ and _good_. But Bucky knew what kinds of violence good men were capable of--he didn’t want to imagine what evil men could manage. 

He didn’t like to think about all the evil that _he’d_ managed since he stepped foot in Europe.

The pain was getting worse now. It rattled in his chest like the awful sounds Steve used to make when his fevers got worse. Must be pneumonia, his mind offered feebly. The thought caused a gasping laugh to bleed out of his throat. All that time he’d spent trying to keep Steve alive and now he was going to die from the same kind of sickness he could’ve caught back in Brooklyn.

The movement made him cut off his laughter to groan feebly at the pain lancing through his chest.

Bucky licked his lips and forced himself to continue his mantra. “Sergeant...3..25...5…--”

Someone grabbed at his shoulder, leaning over him to block the flickering lights above him and revealing -- _“Steve.”_

“Holy shit, Buck,” Steve muttered, hands fumbling with the straps that had kept him in place for days. Weeks. Lifetimes.

His mind fractured again, leaving him blinking up at the massive man with Steve’s face. Steve. “Is that?” he asked dumbly.

Steve offered him a crooked smile and carefully eased Bucky into a sitting position. “It’s me.”

Bucky stared. Stared at the broad chest and strong arms and healthy, tanned skin showing above some kind of strange uniform. This was impossible. “Steve?”

“Yeah, it’s me,” Steve repeated quickly and glanced around the awful room. He took in Bucky’s eyes--unable to focus and flickering around the room in a manic sweep that always returned to Steve--before looping his arm around Bucky’s waist and helping him hobble out of the room. “I thought you were dead.”

Bucky’s mind struggled to focus on this strange new reality. How was Steve here? Here in the depths of hell with Bucky. His feet felt numb and already ached from the sudden movement after so long without. 

Steve was staring at him, worry bracketing his eyes and mouth in a familiar pattern. Bucky forced himself to remember the question he must have asked. Tried to summon up the reassuring smile Steve would expect from him.

“I thought you were smaller.”

As jokes go, it wasn’t his best, but it was enough to make Steve smile with relief and speed up down the hallway. Steve’s hand was rubbing over his back in the same pattern Bucky had used to get him to sleep after his ma died. Bucky decided he could blame the way he was leaning more heavily against his friend on his injuries.

Steve squeezed him tighter, voice fervent in the darkness, “I’m never gonna let them touch you again, Bucky. I promise I’ll keep you safe.”

 

______________________________

 

**Day 1:**

_“Steve!”_ Bucky came awake screaming, clawing at the metal that kept him pinned to the earth.

His head was a spinning, mangled mess of panic and bone deep fear. Images of Steve on the other side of the glass and the quiet sadness in his eyes made Bucky snarl wordlessly up at the sky. His left arm whirled in reaction to his rioting emotions, locking into place so he could shove what was left of the escape pod off of his legs. Looking down, he could see a tangle of wires mixed with the metal of his palm and it matched the fragmented memories of slamming into the control panel in an aborted effort to force the pod to release him.

For a moment he panicked under the unfamiliar weight and it took several deep breaths to shove away the panic attack and focus on what he needed to do. He had to get to Steve. He had to find him.

“Heads up, Birdman,” a voice said nearby, “I’ve got eyes on one half of the dynamic duo.”

Something red and gold dropped into his vision and his left hand snapped close on a metallic throat. Hands that glowed white hot scrabbled with his, but it was several seconds before he was able to force away the need to crush and tear and kill anything that came near him.

“Stark,” he grunted and slowly released his hold on the Iron Man suit. If Stark was here, they may have already picked up Steve from the helicarrier. Hope burned in his chest, chasing away the lingering ache of his crash landing.

Stark coughed, rubbing at the metal throat of his suit as though he could still feel a hand there. “Jeez, remind me not to wake you up in the morning. Where’s Cap? I thought he was with you.”

The world blinked out of focus. 

The next time he opened his eyes he was standing near the wreckage of another escape pod staring down the barrel of the two mini-machine guns Sam favored. The ground around him was a smoking mess of torn metal and broken glass that crunched under his boots. His body was sore with the familiar cost of battle and his chest heaved with rattling breaths, sharp enough that he knew one of his ribs must be broken. Bucky took another shaky breath and forced himself to stay still.

There was a crackling sound and a thick cloud of smoke marring the pure blue of the sky that told him something large was burning. He wanted to rage at that sky. It shouldn’t be the same colors of blissful summer days spent wandering around Coney Island or the wicked flash of humor in Steve’s eyes when he managed to convince someone he was some oversized Boy Scout. It should be dark and turbulent, clouds ready to rain down cold and fury and raize the earth until Steve was found. 

“You back with us?” Sam asked cautiously, but didn’t bother to lower his guns.

Bucky grunted, shaking his head to ease the ringing in his skull. He flicked his eyes over to where Stark was hovering carefully nearby and took a step forward, ignoring the sound of Iron Man’s suit whirring to life in preparation for another attack. “Have you found him?” he asked quickly.

Understanding trickled into Sam’s eyes and he nodded to Tony before lowering his weapons. “Guess we should have guessed something happened based on how frantic you were,” he said a little ruefully, “What’s the story on the helicarrier?”

“Trap--” The word felt like poison in his mouth, “--they set us up.”

“Who set you up? Because I don’t know if I can handle another ‘is SHIELD the good guys or bad guys’ convo,” Tony grumbled, but his eyes were sharp on the area around them.

Bucky focused on Sam and the knowledge that Steve trusted this man enough to ask him for help. He would need allies to take down the soldiers who’d taken Steve. “It was Hydra.” His right hand slipped into the pocket of his tactical gear and he fished out the surveillance photo, “The agent who shot Steve had this in his pocket.”

With his mind focusing on the attack, he felt a sick sense of understanding. The helicarrier was the perfect place to stage an attack on two super soldiers. Without any backup and trapped in the air, they were essentially stranded in a ship full of HYDRA agents. Even the attack in the hallway was carefully tailored to limit Steve and Bucky’s ability to fight back against multiple targets.

And it was exactly what the Winter Soldier had planned to kill Steve on the Triskelion.

“How bad is Steve injured?” Sam frowned, worry evident. 

“I patched it up with a field dressing, but he--” Bucky bit off with a curse and began to walk through the rubble in the field, needing an outlet for all the rage coursing under his skin,”It was bad enough that he wasn’t standing when that fucking pod he shoved me in ejected me from the ship.”

“That sounds like the Boy Scout we know and love,” Tony said grimly. “Hill has crews in the air hunting for the missing crew members.”

“The carrier is down about a quarter mile away from here,” Sam explained quickly when Bucky looked like he was considering bloodshed again, “We’ve been checking all the escape pod beacons for any sign of you or Steve.”

The thought of Steve falling to the ground in another doomed ship made something in Bucky’s chest rip open and he felt the mechanics in his arm shudder in response to the adrenaline and rage coursing through him. He needed to get to Steve to safety. He needed to _find_ him.

Sam was talking to him again and Bucky forced himself to watch his lips form words. “---gonna be okay, Bucky. Just keep calm. The rest of the team is already at the crash site and there weren’t any bodies found in the scans so he must have gotten out.”

“JARVIS says one of the quinjets is missing from the helicarrier,” Tony said, “It must be in stealth mode because I can’t track where it is.”

“You didn’t program a way around that?” Sam asked, disbelief evident.

“Contrary to popular belief, I am not all powerful. Just incredibly good looking, rich, intelligent--”

“Can you find it?” Bucky interrupted, already moving toward the smoking remains of the helicarrier in the distance. 

“I--” Stark raked his hand over his hair, “I’ll do everything I can.”

“Natasha and Clint are in route to the Tower now and Fury has sent over his best agents to begin the hunt for Hydra. He’s furious that they managed to infiltrate the organization again,” Sam explained, “We’ll find him, Bucky.”

But by the time the sun went down and Natasha arrived to coax him away from the wreckage, Steve was still nowhere to be found.

**Day 3:**

They called off the search of the helicarrier after days of fruitless search and hours spent identifying each of the mangled bodies they’d pulled free. Each time they called Bucky into the small tent where row after row of cloth covered forms waited to be retrieved by the morgue was agony. Natasha offered to check each of the unknown males’ for Steve’s face, but Bucky just shook his head.

He had to be the one who laid Steve to rest.

It was strange to think that he spent most of his childhood preparing himself for the day the rattling cough or raging fever swept Steve away to a place where Bucky could no longer reach him. Strange to realize that somewhere along the line, after seeing Steve survive battle after battle and face insurmountable odd with the same reckless courage he’d always had, Bucky had begun to think Steve was immortal. He’d assumed that it would be Steve grieving over an empty grave, not him.

But row after row of strangers’ face left them with only one conclusion: Steve had made it off the ship before it crashed. 

Bucky wasn’t sure that was a good thing.

**Day 7:**

Surviving is much more difficult than dying. 

In death, there’s the peace and certainty Bucky felt the moment his fingers slipped free from the mangled railing of the train. That this pain would end. That Steve would survive and that would be enough to keep him from screaming as he fell and when he found himself still alive hours later.

Having his memories back was suddenly the purest form of torture he’d ever received. His mind was clear enough to know every second Steve was gone was another moment where he would be trapped in the agony of Hydra’s doctors. Bucky knew better than anyone what they would do to break apart Captain America.

Part of him craved the icy numbness of the cryo tanks for the first time since he’d reclaimed his mind. At least there he didn’t have to think about the damage he’d caused or who he dragged down with him. It was better than the hell that was waiting for some sign that Steve was alive and struggling between relief and grief that he might not be.

His life had narrowed down to the endless flickers of videos and pictures on the monitors of Stark’s lab. The billionaire swore that JARVIS would be able to identify any of the Hydra agents from the helicarrier’s camera and the photos of the identified bodies from the grounds crew. All they had to do was wait for one of them to step into the frame of one of the countless security cameras around the world and they would have a starting point.

The rest of the Avengers came trickling into Stark Tower after someone appraised them of the ‘situation.’ That was what they called it now--the ‘situation.’ 

“What’s the ‘situation’ here?” Clint had asked with barely a glance over at Bucky, silent and staring at the monitors like he could will an image of Steve into being.

Sam stood quickly and pulled the archer away so they could mutter more politely about Bucky’s gaunt frame and ragged beard. Even at this distance, Bucky could still catch pieces of their conversation.

“--losing all progress---”

“You can’t expect him to--”

“Without Steve here…”

Bucky reached for the remote and turned up the volume for the screen nearest him, barely listening to the news anchor discussing whatever political bullshit that passed as news now. The couch cushions shifted next to him as Tony flopped down and threw his legs onto the scarred hunk of metal that he used as a coffee table in the lab.

“It’s only a matter of time,” Tony promised wearily and Bucky managed to tear his eyes away from the screen to watch this rare moment of sincerity play over the other man’s features. “There’s no way they can hide forever.”

**Day 15:**

“Hey, Bucky,” Natasha’s voice was gentle as she sank onto the cushions next to him on the couch.

Bucky didn’t bother responding.

“You don’t have to stay here,” she said, “JARVIS will alert you if something changes.” He shot her a look that had her lips quirking in a ghost of a smile, “Yeah I figured you’d think that.”

There was a long silence before he heard the scrape of metal against the floor. When he looked back, the Widow was pressing the familiar round shield into his hands. “Steve would have wanted you to keep this safe for him.”

Bucky tried not to think after that.

**Day 27:**

Sam managed to bully him out of the Tower by arguing that Bucky wouldn’t be cleared for the mission to retrieve Steve if he continue to sit and stare at screens all day. He had already lost most of the weight he’d gained in the months since he’d moved in with Steve. His body was aching from the inactivity so he agreed to jog Sam’s route around the city, instinctively moving toward the familiar streets of Brooklyn.

The third time Bucky craned his neck to look down an abandoned alleyway, Sam noticed. 

“What are you doing?” he asked curiously, turning to look back at the streets they’d passed.

Bucky stared at another disappointing space between buildings, a habit he’d picked up while he was still the Winter Soldier even when he couldn’t remember why. His voice was rough in the quiet pre-dawn streets. 

“It’s where I always found him when he was hurt...before.”

**Day 42:**

Natasha and Clint eventually left when Fury ordered them to diffuse some sort of political disaster in Bosnia. Or maybe Bucharest. It was difficult to remember anything that wasn’t part of the continued hunt for Steve.

“We’ll be back as soon as we can,” she murmured. The familiar cadence of her accentless Russian is no longer the comfort it once was.

Bucky forced himself to tear his eyes away from the screens that JARVIS kept projected on the walls of their apartment at all times. He refused to call it his apartment. Refused to think about the carefully closed off room that still smelled like soap and the polish Steve used to keep the leather of his shield’s harness from cracking and buckling from use. 

His eyes moved over the familiar outline of the door instead of finding Natasha and he heard her sigh and bump her fist gently against his arm. “I have a few sources I can hunt down while I’m in Europe,” she murmured,” Maybe they’ll have heard something.”

**Day 113:**

“Get up.”

The voice was as familiar now as his own and Bucky didn’t have to look back to know Sam had returned to force him into activity. He was a gentler force than Natasha, but still immovable in his determination to force Bucky to be a person.

 _I’m not a person,_ he wanted to protest, _I’m a weapon. A weapon without a target._

Instead, he tried to ignore Sam’s continued attempts to make him eat, get dressed, and move from his post on the worn leather couch in the living room. 

“Come on, man,” Sam groused, that terrible sympathetic sadness in his eyes, “You know Steve would kick your ass if he saw you like this.”

Bucky’s eyes moved to him and he had to grit his teeth to keep from snarling. _“Don’t.”_

There was a beat of silence.

“You know that’s the first word you’ve said to me since Tony forced you to move back up here.” Sam’s voice was just shy of the casual posture that hid the tremor of reaction from the adrenaline that made his pulse flutter at the base of his throat. The sight of him standing calmly in the face of death reminded Bucky so much of Steve that he felt sick.

“What do you want Sam?” He was tired. Too tired to dance around whatever guilt brought Sam here.

Sam sighed, looking heavenward for a moment. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself, Bucky. You can’t hide away and pretend that Steve’s--”

The couch slammed into the ground as Bucky stood without bothering to hide the strength and rage that was barely hidden beneath the surface of his skin. _“Do not-”_ Each syllable dripped with the malice that was all the Winter Soldier and Bucky Barnes could have agreed on, “pretend you understand what I’m fucking feeling right now. You don’t know a damned thing about him. You don’t--”

Sam rounded on him, “You think you’re the only one who lost someone that day? You think you’re the only one who misses him?”

“You _barely_ know him!”

The other man scowled, raking his hands over his close cropped hair like he was trying to keep from throwing another piece of furniture. They stared at each other for a long moment before Sam finally spoke, “I know that. I do…but you know that this isn’t what Steve would want to find when he comes back.”

The fury that was keeping him upright vanished and Bucky was forced to lean heavily on the side table. Just like that he was just another heartsick boy wishing the boy he loved was immortal.

“You…” The words twisted out of his grasp and returned with a wellspring of emotion, “think he’s still alive? The others think...” 

Sam’s smile was fierce. “The Steve I know is too damned stubborn to die before he drives us all insane.”

Bucky’s lips twitched as he nodded and cleared his throat, “That’s sounds like the Steve I know too.”

“Then you need to get up and help me find him before he gets his dumb ass killed.”

It startled a rusty laugh out of him that ended on a sob. He pressed the heels of his hand against his eyes to stop the tears from escaping and he took a deep breath. The words were tumbling out before he could drag them back, “He may not be Steve anymore.”

Sam clapped a hand on his shoulder, squeezing the tense muscles there briefly. “We can bring him back. You know better than most that we can help him remember again.”

“I just,” Bucky swallowed thickly and stared hard at the shield he kept propped against the table next to him, “I just got him back. I can't lose him again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the kudos and the reviews! You are all so wonderful and I was so happy to get such amazing feedback on the first chapter. They make me so happy and low-key keep me writing each time the muse tries to give me the slip. Seriously, you're wonderful.
> 
> Also hit me up on tumblr if you're into memes or would like to complain to me directly about the angst in this chapter. :) I'm AvoidingAverage.


	3. Seventeen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a trigger warning for torture as it features scenes from Bucky's past as well as the new conditioning being done to Steve. It follows the level of violence that is canon typical, but if that gave you the heeby jeebies this is your heads up. :)

Bucky’s bones were brittle with hate and pain.

Once, he had imagined himself to be a good man. A man who protected others; who stayed calm and reassuring next to a child racked with pain and coughing without ever turning away. Even during the war, he held onto the idea that he could still protect others with his ability to shoot and maim and kill--even if he could feel the pieces of his soul chipping away with every reload.

Now all he could think about was the moment he would get to turn all this rage on the dead-eyed doctors standing over him.

He imagined it so much and so often that he felt intimately aware of how the warm rush of their blood would look when it covered his hands--hand, he corrected himself. He only had one now. The mangled piece of meat and tendon had been the first thing they’d taken from him after they dragged him out of the snow.

The next had been what was left of his humanity.

They were careful now to keep their distance from him, despite the heavy metal cuffs that kept him pinned in place like a bug on display. It only took a quick flick of his hand to steal an empty syringe from a nurse’s pocket and barely a thought to jam it deep into the neck of the next doctor foolish enough to lean over him for them to realize that their patient was still deadly. 

That was the first time they used the machine on him.

It twisted through his body like the cold partner to Zola’s burning injections. Locked each muscle in his body tight in painful agony that chased away all thoughts in his head except the blinding need to survive into the next second. _Hurts hurts hurts please make it stop make it stop_

When he was a shivering, aching mess again, the man who was always watching, always _just out of reach_ would step closer. Ignoring the way Bucky glared up at him, he would run one hand gently down the twitching muscles of his good arm and ask, “Who are you?”

It was always hard to speak after, but Bucky took pleasure each time there was a flash of annoyance in those hazel eyes when he spoke, “Sergeant James Barnes, 32557.”

Steve would have warned them that there was nothing Bucky enjoyed more than pissing people off.

Maybe he would when the Commandos finally rescued him from this place.

Bucky refused to listen to the logical side of his brain that said Steve wouldn’t be coming here. No one would ever believe that Bucky had survived the fall from such a distance--hell, Bucky wasn’t even sure how it happened. He supposed it was only his bad luck that he would be tortured by the same bullshit organization twice in one war. Still...it had been worth it to get the chance to see Stevie tall and strong, with a body that finally matched the fierce heart beating just out of sight.

To avoid thinking about all he lost as he was falling through the air into the snow, Bucky turned his attention to ensuring that Hydra got nothing from him. Steve had taught him time and time again that sometimes stubbornness was the only way to win a hopeless battle. He could make Steve proud, even if he never got to see him again.

His world became a rotating kaleidoscope of pain and endless questions. 

“Who are you?”

“Sergeant...James Barnes...3255...7”

Then the pain would return.

_____________________________________

 

He took to counting how many times they used the machine on him just to give himself something to focus on.

At five, he couldn’t remember the numbers that had followed his name ever since he got his draft notice.

When he reached twelve, he stopped bothering to call himself a Sergeant.

Each time it became harder to drag the thoughts back into his mind. His brain fumbled with the words, turning them over and over as though they were in a language he could no longer understand. He was a soldier--he was sure of it. His muscles remembered the weight of a gun and the sensation of dog tags around his neck. He was a soldier.

 _Bucky,_ his mind feebly produces after several long minutes of silence. _My name is Bucky._

 _My name is Bucky Barnes and I will not let them break me,_ he promised silently, fervent as any church goer. _I won’t let them use me to hurt Steve._

He reached sixteen sessions with a fierce sort of pride. Whatever Zola had pumped into him was making it damned difficult to die, but at least he got to watch the growing frustration in the eyes of the doctors and scientists around him. Sometimes he thought they looked frightened by the prospect that Bucky might _not_ break after all and he gave them a toothy grin that made one of the nurses blanch bright white.

The door opened off to his right and he could tell by the sudden tension in the room that the man had returned. He still didn’t know his name, but Bucky knew he would never forget the sound of his voice. It felt like it was etching itself deeper into his brain each time the machine clicked on. His mind was beginning to have trouble focusing on the room and the people around him and he hoped that meant it wouldn’t be long before he finally slipped into that dark place he sometimes witnessed when they tested the machine’s limits.

This time, instead of giving the nod that would signal the beginning of the endless agony of the machine, the man stands by the soldier’s bed and looks down at him. “Were you in love with Captain Rogers?” he asked abruptly.

Bucky frowned, the fragments of his mind coalescing into one painful knot of fear and hope and anguish. His throat was dry but the word tumbles free from his lips like a benediction, “Steve…”

The man hummed, looking thoughtful and Bucky focused on how much he wished he could kill him. “That is unfortunate,” he finally said and the mock sympathy in his voice made Bucky want to laugh. 

Finding Steve in that alley so long ago had led him to nothing but trouble, but Bucky would never regret the decision to wade into the mess of tangled limbs and furious voices to defend the tiny spitfire at its’ center.

Oblivious to Bucky’s train of thought, the man toyed with the plain manila folder he had in his hands for a long moment. Bucky wondered if this was a new form of torture where they let the anticipation of the coming pain build. Unfortunately for them, he was too tired for these sorts of games so he just stared in silence and focused on preparing for the pain he knew was coming.

Finally the man sighed and Bucky watched the beginnings of a cruel smile twitch at his lips. “Captain Rogers was killed in action late last night,” he said, “Crashed into the arctic.”

Bucky blinked, feeling like the floor was shifting oddly under his feet. His head was shaking out a denial even as his mind tried to comprehend this information. No. No, Steve was safe. He was with the rest of the Commandos. They wouldn’t let him…

“You--you’re lying…” he said quickly, but the words lacked the derision he was trying desperately to cling to. This was just another trick. It had to be a trick.

“It’s true,” the man said easily and gestured for one of the orderlies waiting nearby, “though I assumed you wouldn’t believe me at first.”

There was a click before the familiar drone of a radio filled the air. “--day of mourning has been declared in honor of the fallen hero. Captain Rogers was a true American hero and a man who stood for all the values we hope to see--”

The announcer’s voice was cut off by the inhuman sound that ripped free from Bucky’s throat, louder than any of the noises he’d made during the worst of his torture. “No, no! _Steve!_ ” 

He bucked and tore at the straps with the last of the energy left in his body after weeks of this torture, mindless. Steve...gone. It was such an impossible idea even after all the years of sickness that Bucky’s brain stuttered each time the thought attempted to form. It was so much worse than the moment he’d awakened without his arm. Steve was supposed to be _safe._ He was supposed to outlive Bucky now that he had the serum. He was supposed to _live._

The man smiled slowly and gestured to the nurse controlling the machine to begin. “Now, where were we?”

He was still screaming Steve’s name when the grinding hum of electricity filled the air and ricocheted into his body. 

This time Bucky let the pain drag him under.

__________________________________

Steve knew with the certainty brought by a lifetime’s worth of close scrapes and brushes with death that he was lying in a hospital bed. Even if he didn’t recognize the steady rhythm of his heart, there was something about the smell of antiseptic and blood that was unique to hospitals no matter what century he was in. His stomach tingled in a familiar sensation that told him his body was busy healing him from the gunshot he’d taken in the helicarrier, but there was a crinkle of plastic against the exit wound that told him someone had dressed the injury. For a moment, he entertained the hope that he was back at SHIELD’s high tech hospital and would be able to look over to see which of his friends had decided to stand guard over him.

Then he opened his eyes.

The white walls reminded him of the ones that had greeted him when he’d first awakened in the strange new modern world. Despite the clean floors and walls, only a fool would think this was a hospital meant to heal its occupants. His arms and legs were bolted to the hard metal chair beneath him and a experimental shift of his muscles was enough to prove it was designed to prevent his serum-based enhancements from giving him an edge. A metal ring connected to a larger machine hovered just out of sight near his head and he fought the urge to try to rip the IV out of his arm.

As soon as he shifted, soft footsteps warned him that he was no longer alone in his cell. A man with the bearing of a soldier stepped into view and stared down at Steve with a flat smile. “Captain Rogers, it is so nice to see you conscious at last,” he said politely with a slight Russian accent, “I am Aleksander Lukin.”

It was an effort to keep himself calm when he was still trying to figure out what was going on. He’d been so sure he would die in that crash that it was jarring to be awake and in relatively good health. “Where am I?”

“I’m sure you won’t be surprised when I tell you I have no intentions of letting you know that.”

Steve considered him for a long moment, taking in the stylized K in a circle embroidered on the dark grey sleeve of his uniform. “Where’s Bucky?”

Lukin smiled like he’d done something that pleased him and the sight made something in Steve go cold. “How interesting…”

They both looked up when the door to the room opened to admit a delicate looking man who immediately moved over to examine the machines Steve was still hooked up to. Thick glasses perched precariously on the end of a hooked nose hid the too-small eyes that darted around the room as though he was afraid to linger. Lukin gestured to the newcomer, “This is Dr. Faustus--he’ll be attending you through the process.”

“What process?” Steve asked sharply, “And where is Bucky?”

“Did you know,” Lukin drawled, “that you were the first thing your friend asked about when he recovered from his injuries all those years ago?”

Steve ground his teeth until his jaw ached. “Go to hell.”

“Such language from the paragon of American virtue,” Lukin tutted and moved back to allow the doctor to attach a series of electrodes to Steve’s chest. “He didn’t realize it then--too senseless from the pain in his arm--but he gave Zola the key to turning your loyal Sergeant Barnes into the Winter Soldier. You see, to reprogram and remake a man, you must find the things he cares most about and twist them to suit your purposes.”

Steve’s muscles bunched with the need to rip apart Lukin with his bare hands and he listened to the metal pinning him to the table groan in protest. He consoled himself with the understanding that Lukin would have bragged about capturing Bucky if he had. 

This time Steve had saved him. 

“They must have fried his brain six times before they realized that Barnes’ commitment to his darling Steve was more than they could burn out of him.” Lukin smiled faintly, “I was truly moved when I watched the old videos of his ‘trainings.’ You must be quite the hero to have inspired such loyalty.”

“Fuck you.” 

The doctor flinched from the violence in his tone, but resumed adjusting the equipment around Steve after Lukin threw him a pointed look. He pressed a button on the side of Steve’s bed that tilted him into a seated position and shifted the blankets away until Steve was sitting in his bloodied pants and boots. Fautus’ hands didn’t linger, but it made Steve’s skin crawl each time he was touched without permission. The metal disk that had been hanging over his head slowly lowered until it rested neatly against his cheekbones. He waited to see if it would do anything before returning his attention to Lukin.

Steve felt his chest heaving with the adrenaline coursing through his veins that was urging him to fight or run out of this room and find Bucky himself. He wanted to fight so badly and his fingers itched for the familiar metal of his shield but he’d settle for bare knuckles if it meant getting out of these restraints.

Lukin smiled and Steve watched the fanatical glint in his eyes with a sick sense of understanding. “It was obvious then that the two of you were a matched pair--although Zola never did manage to replicate Erskine’s formulate exactly, did he?” He ran a finger down the muscles of Steve’s arm, ignoring the other man’s struggles to get free, “He was so much slower to heal then and Hydra was so impatient for results. It took them months of careful research to find the perfect memories to twist into the foundations of the Winter Soldier and you know first hand how well he performs with the right triggers. But even after all that time with Hydra’s best doctors, he still clung to one thing…”

The pain that seared into Steve’s body was so sudden that he didn’t have time to brace for it. Couldn’t do anything to stop the agonized roar that ripped free from his body or the way his back arched nearly off the bed. He tasted blood in his mouth when his teeth bit into his tongue and he felt the metal dent under his fingertips when he squeezed down.

It went on for ages, years. Time meant nothing while his body struggled to survive the electricity coursing through his body until it finally cut off and he was left a shivering mess on the bed. For several long moments, Steve rode out the seizures caused by electricity with white knuckles force. When it was over, it felt like he had to relearn what it was to breathe without agony, to move his chest up and down and suck painful gulps of air through his tortured throat.

"Who are you?"

Steve hung limply in his bonds, brain sluggishly working through the painful aftershocks. His breathing was as wild as it had been during the worst of his asthma and, oddly, that thought centered him. He’d survived much worse in his lifetime and knew Lukin had no intentions of killing him that easily. 

So he spat out a wad of blood at the man’s impeccable dress uniform and smiled at him, “Steve Fucking Rogers--I can do this all day.”

Lukin pulled out a starched handkerchief and carefully wiped away the liquid staining his chest. When he spoke again, there was a thread of annoyance that would have pleased Steve if he wasn’t struggling to control his breathing and the thunder of his heart, “I’ve never understood why so many people were convinced that you were such a hero.”

“Probably because they didn’t use small enough words to explain it to you.”

“Bucky Barnes was only the first person you let down in your illustrious career, wasn’t he?” Lukin said a little derisively, “I can’t imagine how many bodies you’ve put into the ground since you abandoned him the first time.”

Steve clenched his jaw mulishly and refused to respond, refused to acknowledge the comments that were already hitting too close to the ball of guilt that rested in the center of his chest.

The wall to the left of him flickered and Steve watched the now familiar scenes captured from the fall of Sokovia. Whoever had filmed it had taken perverse pleasure in capturing the dull light reflecting in the too-still eyes of each victim they’d found and Steve felt the familiar burn of pain. 

These were the videos that Steve had watched night after night long after Ultron was finished. It wasn’t until JARVIS alerted Tony to the countless nights he’d spent in front of the monitor memorizing each feature of the broken bodies until he could sketch them from memory that he’d been forced to stop. These were the victims of the chaos he’d helped create the moment he stepped out of Erskine’s machines. 

They were followed by less familiar victims from the Triskelion. The Battle Of New York. The apartment complex in Africa. Countless other battles he'd fought in the name of the Avengers.

“You’re more stoic than I expected, Captain. I’m impressed.”

Steve remained silent, focusing his rage of the monster in front of him. 

Lukin smiled and shook his head. “It really is a shame that Hydra sent the Winter Soldier to kill you. If you hadn’t ruined his programming, we might have avoided this unfortunate conclusion…”

Before Steve could respond, the screen shifted to a new video feed. 

At first, he couldn’t understand what he was looking at. It looked like a mass of gun metal grey steel, unfamiliar until the camera panned to the right and he could make out the familiar SHIELD emblem. 

His breath stuttered out in a rush when the sound of radio static cut through the nearly silent video feed. 

“Captain America and the Winter Soldier are confirmed on board.” It took him a moment to recognize the voice of the officer who’d attacked them on the helicarrier. 

“Confirmed. You are clear to engage.” Lukin’s voice on the recording felt like shards of glass against his skull. 

For several moments there was no sound, then a massive explosion rocked the ship, sending it listing off course in a blossoming cloud of smoke. 

“Status?” Lukin asked sharply. 

A new voice responded, breathless with adrenaline. “Rogers is confirmed hit but mobile. We have eyes on them on the command deck, but they’re moving towards the pods.”

“Confirmed. Sending in air support.”

Steve frowned with growing dread. He didn’t remember anyone firing on the ship while they were in the air. The agents who’d attacked him had merely tossed a few canisters of a foul smelling smoke that left him coughing and numb until he’d collapsed. 

Then he watched the tiny escape pod jettison free of the helicarrier, looking small and intensely vulnerable against the clear blue sky. All he could think about was the horror and panic in Bucky’s eyes when Steve had trapped him inside. He’d…

An unfamiliar man’s voice cut through Steve’s spiraling thoughts and he could hear the thrum of an engine through the mic. “I have eyes on the Soldier, engage?”

Lukin took a step closer to Steve when his voice spoke on the recording, “Bring him down.”

“NO!” Steve roared helplessly, but he already knew he was too late. _Too late too late too late_

His eyes fixed against his will on the pale smoke that trailed behind the tiny rocket, willing it to go off course. Praying with all his might that this was just some trick—that he hadn’t just found Bucky only to lose his again. Pleading with God to just save his friend and let Steve die in his place. 

But it was already too late for prayers. 

The escape pod exploded in a muted burst of flame that he felt echo in his soul. 

Steve surged forward, feeling the metal restraints buckle and shred his skin, but ignored it. A rage that he hadn’t felt since the moment he’d watched Bucky fall from the train built to a roaring inferno in his chest. Lukin took a step back instinctively and pressed a button on the panel beside him that had electricity burning through his in a tidal wave. Steve felt his muscles threaten to seize and lock in response, but he only grit his teeth and slammed into the restraints again. And again. 

Faustus’ mouth opened on a startled gasp that Steve barely heard over the wild need to rip Lukin into bloody pieces. 

“Increase the voltage,” Lukin ordered, eyes wide. 

Steve let out a keening sound of pain that turned into a guttural snarl when the machine hummed with new intensity. Dark shadows swirled in his vision and he could feel the tendons in his stand out in stark relief when he dug his fingers into the metal arm of the bed and _pulled._

This. This he would do for Bucky. He would give him the justice he needed before he joined him. 

The thought centered in Steve’s mind like it’s own kind of conditioning and gave him the strength to rip his right arm free. 

Faustus gave a shriek that sounded muffled through the blood Steve could feel trickling from his ears and slammed his hand down on the control panel once more. Even Erskine’s serum wouldn’t be enough to heal the pain shrieking through each of his nerves, but Steve didn’t care. All he could focus on was the brief flash of fire and smoke that was all that was left of his Bucky.

The roar that was ripped free from Steve’s throat was more animal than man and he reached wildly for Lukin as his vision wavered and darkened. He thought he felt his fingers brush the rough wool of his uniform before that darkness consumed him. 

_______________________________

When they dragged his body from the chair, the man didn’t bother to fight. He let them toss him into a windowless room that blocked all light from the outside and let that darkness cover him like a blanket. 

He sank to the ground and wept for a man whose face he could no longer remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...at least Steve's alive? 
> 
> HUGE shoutout to those of you who left kudos and took the time to leave a comment! You're amazing! I read through them anytime I lose my muse to give me the strength to bring that bitch to heel. :)
> 
> Also, am I insane for considering writing an AU where Steve and Bucky are owners of competing food trucks?? The MCU is easily my favorite fandom for AUs and now all I can do is picture these two competitive assholes trying not to admit their attraction while wearing aprons. :D


	4. Furnace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before we begin, I just wanted to take a minute to thank you all for the kudos and comments. You are amazing and I cherish every one of them. Seriously.
> 
> This chapter is...grim. No major trigger warnings aside from canon-typical violence.
> 
> Or, get ready for a feel-trip my angsty friends. :)

The factory was hell on earth as far as Bucky was concerned. All the windows had been carefully nailed shut to prevent anyone from sneaking out during their shift and only a few of the lights hanging overhead still functioned, making the room dark as a coal mine. Any feeble attempts to make it seem less like a prison were hidden under the soot and ash from the ovens that ran all day and night. That same ash liked to settle into the clothes and lungs of the workers until it was a running joke that when you worked at the factory you were always guaranteed an early retirement.

The irony wasn’t lost on Bucky that his job was evening his life expectancy to something closer to Steve’s.

He tossed a tired wave to the next shift’s workers and limped away from the building. Even the clogged city air felt like a godsend compared to the stifling, smoke filled air of the building at his back. Maybe if he breathed enough of it in he could wipe away the poisonous ash that sometimes spotted his handkerchiefs after he coughed. 

Better black ash than the bright red specks that heralded Sarah slow demise.

Overhead, dark clouds hung heavy with rain and promised another cold spell that always spelled doom for Steve. Tucking his hands in his pockets, Bucky nodded to another work friend and took another deep breath of outside air.The envelope in his pocket was laughably light considering how many hours he’d been forced to work just to get the pay it contained. Still, he was smiling when he turned down the familiar path back home.

Instead of moving toward the tightly packed apartment buildings where he knew Steve would be expecting him, Bucky turned a block earlier and ducked into one of the sparse little stores nearby. Before the war, the hardware store would have been filled with customers preparing for whatever little projects they had planned for the weekend, but the strict rationing required by the war effort meant most of the metal and tools were gone for use in bigger and bloodier things. 

The bell above the door still jangled merrily when he stepped into the dim shop and he smiled at the sharp-eyed man behind the counter. “Got the last payment for you, Marty.”

“About time, Barnes,” Marty grunted with an annoyed look. “Better be in cash too, I don’t take I.O.U.s.”

Bucky didn’t begrudge him the suspicion -- before the war he’d spent more than a few days lifting ice cream and candies from the counter to split with Steve. Now, no one had money to spend on such things and he’d promised Steve he wouldn’t run risk getting picked up by the cops again. 

Not when the government was beginning to send scouts into the prisons looking for new recruits for their armies.

So he gave Marty his most shit-eating grin--the one that made Steve roll his eyes the hardest--and slid over the wad of money he’d counted and recounted five times already. Marty gave him a look, but thumbed through the bills with a grunt. “Wait here, I’ll bring it out to you.”

Bucky put his hands in his pockets and whistled a cheerful tune he’d heard in the dance hall a few days ago. He’d come home tipsy and happy and even managed to cajol Steve into dancing with him. Steve’s off-key singing had been enough to send them into gales of laughter and they’d collapsed in a happy heap on their threadbare couch, groaning when one of the springs busted through the thin fabric beneath them.

The sound of shuffling footsteps broke through his cheerful thoughts and he stepped forward when Marty came puffing into view carrying a large wooden box. Bucky’s tired muscles shrieked in protest when he took the crate out of the shopkeeper’s hands, but he was too excited to let that stop him. They levered the container onto the container and Marty gave a few wheezing coughs before shuffling behind the counter to count out Bucky’s change.

The whole way home Bucky barely felt the weight of the crate in his arms against the excitement thundering in his veins. He could already imagine how much nicer this winter would be thanks to the brand new furnace in his hands. Christmas was still a few weeks away, but it would be the last winter they would have to spend huddling around the shoddy heater in their tiny apartment. Maybe the new furnace would be enough to keep Steve well enough to avoid his yearly fight with the colds that inevitably led to pneumonia.

God wouldn’t _that_ be worth all the lungrot he got from working in the factory.

There was a man standing outside the apartment complex when Bucky hobbled into view and he frowned curiously at him. He watched the stranger hand a letter over to his nosy landlady before heading back down the street.

Mrs. Perkins looked a little pale when she spotted Bucky walking toward her and his sense of unease deepened. As a raging gossip, Mrs. Perkins usually looked positively gleeful when she was able to share some piece of information she shouldn’t know -- now she looked faintly ill.

“Everything alright, ma’am?” he asked when he was within speaking distance, trying for the innocent expression Steve liked to use to sweet talk her into accepting their rent a week late.

She fidgeted, looking anywhere but at him. Her gaze flicked back to the door to his apartment where he knew Steve would be waiting for him to arrive before she sighed and handed over the official looking letter in her hand. “I--I’m sorry, James,” she murmured.

Bucky felt a curious sense of numbness creep into his veins as he stared at the perfectly precise letters of his official draft notice. Didn’t even notice when Mrs. Perkins hurried back to her apartment until the soft click of her door closing cut through the pounding throb of his heartbeat in his ears.

His thumb brushed over the proud stamp of ‘Selection Service’ in the left corner of the envelope like he could will it to disappear.

He’d known it was coming eventually, of course. Could feel it creeping in like the first frosts of winter, ready to steal away the lives of those too poor to escape it. Hell, half the men at the factory had already received their notice or enlisted when the promise of steady cash became too much to pass up. But Bucky’d been almost convinced he could outrun his bad luck if he just kept his head down and laid low until the war died down. 

Oddly, his first thought was of Steve instead of his impending mortality.

Steve who would be waiting for him to come home with a smile on his face. Steve who had been sneaking away when Bucky was at work to attempt to enlist despite rejection after rejection. Steve who had been trying to hide the stubborn cough that refused to go away because he knew how the sound of it always made something tighten in Bucky’s chest.

How could Bucky leave him here all alone?

___________________________________

They were talking about him again, just at the edge of his range of enhanced hearing. 

Casually, Bucky lowered the weights he’d been using and shifted closer to the group under the guise of wrapping his hand so he could make use of the punching bag hanging nearby. Most people never bothered to check if the headphones he had on were actually playing any music and he’d used the strategy more than once to overhear conversations at the Tower. He knew Natasha would see through his sudden interest in boxing, but she do more than glance in his direction once before glaring back at Tony. 

“He _deserves to know,_ ” she growled, “He isn’t a prisoner.”

“No, he’s a hundred year old hit man that is barely hanging on to his sanity!” Tony hissed. “We need to keep this contained.”

Sam’s calm voice cut through Natasha’s snort before she could snap something back at him. “He’s not the Winter Soldier anymore, Tony. The only way he’s ever going to learn to trust us is if we trust him…”

“This is--”

“Stop talking about me like I’m a child,” Bucky said quietly and Tony jumped when he realized the former assassin was standing right behind him. “What happened?”

The metal of his left hand shifted uncontrollably at his side as his heart began to thunder in his ears. Bucky tried to concentrate on keeping his breathing even and steady while his thoughts raced. What if they’d found Steve? What if… Would they even tell him if Steve died?

Some of his panic must have shown in his face because Natasha abruptly reached out and ran a hand down the metal of his arm. “It’s okay,” she murmured, “We haven’t….There’s new intel about the Hydra team that attacked the helicarrier. One of the Hydra agents we ID’d from the helicarrier was spotted outside of Charleston. Fury is arranging an ops team now.”

Bucky nodded, trying to ignore the pounding heartbeat in his ears. “When do we leave?”

Natasha smiled at him, but Sam cut her off with a quick look. “I know you want to help Steve, but this may not be the best--”

“I don’t give a flying fuck about my conditioning or if you think it’s a good idea. I’m going to find Steve.” The group exchanged a look that made him growl in warning. He was sick of being treated like a bomb they were waiting to explode.

“Fine,” Tony said, “but you stay with a partner at all times and if they decides you need to leave, you do.”

Bucky considered arguing that he was one of the most prolific assassins in world history and had managed countless ops without a babysitter, but he bit his tongue. If this was the way he could be on the group and fighting when they found Steve, then he could cope.

“Fine.”

_______________________________

 

Bucky tried not to think about the last time he’d ridden in one of Stark’s quinjets. Even with his conditioning gone, it didn’t erase the memories of the weight of the pilot’s limp body leaning against him as he piloted the machine onto the Triskelion to kill Captain America. He wouldn’t allow himself to forget the way the nameless pilot had gasped and pleaded brokenly until his chest finally went still.

Something in his expression must have signalled the dark nature of his thoughts because it wasn’t long before Natasha sidled up next to where he stood near the sealed ramp at the back of the ship. She didn’t bother asking stupid questions like ‘are you okay’ or ‘do you want to talk.’ They both knew the answer.

No.

Still, it eased some of the coiling tension in his chest to finally be doing something instead of sitting on his ass in Stark’s Tower. If he hadn’t shoved the more useless of his emotions to the back of his mind, he would be full of wild hope and anticipation for seeing Steve again after the better part of a year of searching.

It was enough to keep him still and silent through endless rounds of briefings and arguments over his ability to remain in control when he came face to face with Hydra again. But even Fury hadn’t truly believed that would be able to keep Bucky contained when they finally -- _finally_ \-- had a lead on Steve.

“Touchdown in three minutes,” a polite male voice intoned overhead. 

Natasha glanced at him and he watched her heads thumb over the two pistols holstered at her hips. It created an odd parallel with the memory of a teenage redhead looking excited and anxious for her first mission outside the Red Room. 

“Are you sure you can handle this?” she asked, quiet enough that no one else would overhear.

If it were anyone else, he’d probably slam a fist into their face for their trouble, but Natasha knew better than most what being out of control of your mind felt like. The truth was he wasn’t really sure if there would ever be a time that he faced a battle without feeling that cold sort of madness come over him. Maybe that had been there even before Hydra’s conditioning.

The look on Natasha’s told him he had paused too long to answer so he tried to drag out some of the humor he’d once been known for.

“Considering I taught you how to fight, shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

A quick quirk of her lips. “I’m pretty sure I’ve kicked you ass a few times as well, old man.”

“I seem to remember you staring at my ass more than actually kicking it…”

Somewhere behind him he heard Clint attempt to cover a laugh with a cough. It almost made him miss the quick trace of pink dusting over sharp cheekbones at the insinuation in his voice. Almost.

“Can’t blame a girl for enjoying the view,” she said with the same smirk she’d tossed him through a hail gunfire so long ago. 

It was enough to make a ghost of smile cross his lips, fading almost immediately when the quinjet’s thrusters kicked on in preparation for landing. Adrenaline pumped through his veins in a hot rush, washing away his uncertainties and nerves about what this mission could bring. His legs shifted instinctively to brace for the changing altitude and quickly thumbed off the safety on his gun. 

Aside from Bucky’s presence on the mission, his decision to be in the thick of things was one of the most hotly contested points in the mission plans. Fury and the majority of the team thought the distance might prevent any unexpected surprises from him, but Bucky was adamant. He needed to be on the ground when they found Steve -- not holed up in some nest hundreds of yards away. He’d had enough of shooting strangers from a distance to last a lifetime. 

Even Tony had shut up after that. 

A red light flickered on the wall next to him in warning for the bitter rush of wind and sound that came seconds later when the hatch opened. Bucky and Natasha stepped out in a graceful mimicry of the years of training they’d had together in her homeland. Eyes steady, breath even, invisible but for the occasional glint of their eyes reflected in the light of the retreating jet. 

Hawkeye gave them a nod before disappearing into the foliage with enough stealth that Bucky increased his value as a teammate incrementally. Natasha seemed to trust the man’s ability to watch their six and the footage from the attack on New York showed he was a capable sniper. Still, Bucky wasn’t comfortable being on the other end of a sniper’s scope.

They moved toward the bunker carefully marked on their maps in easy silence. The jet had dropped them about a mile outside of the security perimeter which meant it would take them roughly an hour to approach from the south as planned. Bucky kept an eye on the skyline for any sign of Sam or Tony, but they remained out of sight as promised. No bright jet streams or propulsion rockets to attract the guards’ attention before everyone was in place. 

It was almost a relief to channel all his rage and worry into an op that would cripple whatever remnants of Hydra that were responsible for taking Steve. All the fear and unease that had colored his return to clarity and the Tower faded under the comfortable rhythm of easing into enemy territory. He was a soldier at heart, even if Steve liked to pretend otherwise.

Natasha made a sharp gesture with her fist and they froze in place to watch the first perimeter guard walk past them, only a few feet from where they stood. The blackout gear SHIELD provided was enough to ensure they were nothing more than another patch of shadow in the inky dark. It helped that the guards were sloppy -- too many turns down the same path to keep their eyes sharp and focused on the woods around them.

As soon as the two guards had their backs to them, the two assassins moved like twin ghosts to their targets. Natasha knife made no sound when it entered the man’s neck at an angle that collapsed his trachea and entered his spine fast enough to paralyze him before he could do more than collapse to the earth. It was a solid kill and a move he’d spent the better part of a week teaching her when she was a child.

For his part, Bucky avoided the flashier moves for a quick burst of brute strength. His hands closed of the man’s jaw and neck, ending the contact with the soft snap of a broken neck.

“Eight minutes before the next patrol check-in,” Natasha breathed as they drug the bodies into the bushes nearby.

With the first patrol down, Bucky let Natasha take point to cover their movement. They moved across the open field that led to the concrete and steel compound through a small maze of barbed wire and other, nastier, surprises for unwanted visitors. Occasionally, JARVIS would recommend a shift in their course to avoid guards or something unseen even with their abilities.

As soon as they reached the smooth wall at the back of the bunker, Bucky set himself up in the space with the best sightlines to cover his partner while she shucked off her backpack to reveal its’ contents. The metal device she pulled out was roughly the size of a football, but Stark had been adamant that it would be enough to “completely ruin Hydra’s night.”

Her voice was steady over the comms as she attached it to the wall and pressed a series of buttons, “Deploying EMP in three...two…” Overhead, Bucky’s ears popped with the sound of the incoming strike -- the only warning Hydra would get before Natasha said, “One.”

The EMP went off with a muffled electrical charge that made the mechanism in his left arm twinge in sympathy. Within seconds the security lights flickered and shut off, surrounding them in familiar darkness. 

“Communications are down.”

Shouts and cries of alarm echoed around the clearing as soldiers spewed out the bunker like ants. Bucky let them rush forward into the open space outside to look for their attackers -- not realizing that doing so made them easy targets. He waited until he heard the now-familiar sound of the Iron Man suit in route with Sam from the north before he opened fire. Between the two forces, it was a little too easy to pin the confused group of people down.

He kept his aim and his promise to avoid too many non-combatant casualties that had been yet another stipulation for his presence on this mission. Fury needed people to question and Bucky wasn’t so far gone that he would risk any information that could bring Steve back. Hell, he’d drag himself through blood and fire every fucking day of his life if it would just bring him back.

As soon as Tony gave the all clear for the secondary teams to begin rounding up the survivors of the raid, Bucky turned his attention to the bunker at his back. The door’s locking mechanism must have been thrown by whatever cowards had remained behind when everything went to shit. It gave him a savage sort of pleasure at how easy it was to use his left arm to break the lock with one swift jerk.

Natasha said something behind him, but he ignored her in favor of throwing open the main door and stepping inside.

The bunker was like every other military facility he’d ever been in. All dull concrete greys and narrow windows that were meant to prevent these kinds of invasions. It made something dark and terrible clench in breathless anticipation for pain and helplessness. Two guards moved forward with shouts of alarm and he met them with the silent ferocity that had earned him his place in a world full of monsters. 

He heard the telltale click before the sharp explosion of gunpowder and brought the metal of his hand up instinctively. The shots echoed down the metal of his arm in an erratic tattoo that shouldn’t feel so damned comforting after so many months of piece. His right arm moved in tandem with the 9 mm he preferred for close combat. The gun felt like just another part of his body, just another piece of metal for his collection.

Their bodies fell twitching to the floor like so many others had before them. The only difference was that he felt not even an ounce of remorse for their deaths -- that part of him died long ago.

The door behind him opened again and the tangle of voices told him who had entered before they moved into his line of sight. Sam and Stark. 

“Do you think they have an interior decorator? Hydra? I mean,” Tony said casually, his suit peeling back to expose his face. “There’s no way they could color coordinate this well without one.”

Sam’s expression was pensieve and Bucky turned away before he saw more than he was ready to share.

“Seriously -- how do they tell the difference between each of these scary bunkers? There shouldn’t be this many shades of grey in the world…”

“Not the time, Tony…” Sam muttered.

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s just get this over with.”

They moved through the hallway as thoroughly as possible considering the relative darkness and occasional huddled form of the lower ranking members of this unit. Even Tony’s constant stream of chatter dimmed in the bitter darkness left behind by the EMP. The sounds of helicopters and more reinforcements echoed oddly against the layers of concrete and steel.

Sam shifted next to him, almost bumping into him until he reached out a hand to steady the other man. “On your left,” he muttered.

Sam flinched and did a double take, but didn’t respond.

“Can I get some lights on, Friday?” Tony said, seemingly to himself.

The hallway lights gave an electric hum and slowly powered on overhead, making Bucky wince against the brightness. With the lights on their progress was much quicker and Bucky could feel his heart beginning to pound in the rhythm it always seemed to fall back into. stevestevestevestevefindyousaveyoufindyou

Most of the rooms were already abandoned by the agents outside and he tried not to count how many bodies bore the telltale white foam of a cyanide pill. No one questioned the way Bucky was able to navigate the Warren of hallways deep beneath the earth. It was difficult to decide if this was one of the many locations he’d been kept in, not with so many to choose from.

Then his eyes flickered into a set of metal doors bolted into the wall and went still.

Sam said something to him, voice tight and concerned, but Bucky couldn’t find the breath to respond. He pressed shaking fingers into the handle of the door and watched it open with a soft groan of rusty hinges.

Inside was the same tile-covered room that featured in so many of his nightmares, but all of his focus was fixed on the large metal chair bolted to the floor in its center. 

Sam cursed viciously. “Bucky -- you don’t need to be in here.”

Bucky ignored him. His mind seemed to fracture and split between the urge to run and the need to begin the process of debriefing after a long mission. He shook his head absently, breathing quick and unsteady. 

He was not an asset. He was a _person_ again. 

Steve _needed_ him to be a person.

The thought was all that kept him from spiraling into the tangle of pain and confusion that was always left behind by that fucking chair. The restraints hung limp and slightly askew as though it was still waiting for his return. There was no sign of the machine that pumped thousands of volts of electricity into his brain until he could barely remember how to think on his own. Until he was the perfect weapon.

_Your work has been a gift to mankind. You shaped the century. And I need you to do it one more time._

One more time.

He stepped forward slowly, needing to prove to himself that he could face this part of his past and hide from the dawning realization that he wasn’t the only one they might use this on. His gun clattered to the floor when his nerveless fingers lost their grip and it was all he could do to keep upright when he finally got a closer look at the restraints.

They were a wild mass of twisting metal and torn leather. One side appeared to be completely ripped free from the heavy metal welding and the other was barely in place. Enhanced, his mind supplied with the same calm voice he used to analyze his targets, no regular prisoner would be capable of this. His vision narrowed to a five part imprint on the side of the chair and he felt the bottom of his stomach drop in horror.

A handprint.

The sound he made was an inhuman howl of grief and he surged forward in a blur of speed. His left arm slammed into the metal of the chair, muscles bunching with the violence of his movement. Again and again until he ripped it completely free from the brackets on the floor and hurled it into the cell wall.

Strong hands clutched at his shoulders to keep him from attempting any further damage and it took all his control not to turn his rage on his new allies. Natasha was murmuring soothing nonsense in Russian in his ear and he shuddered violently, unable to control the course of his grief and horror. 

“It’s okay. It’s okay. We’ll find him. We’ll bring him back. He’s alive, Bucky. He’s alive.”

Tears dripped down his cheeks into the stubble on his cheeks and he gave another sobbing breath at the thought of what had happened here. What they would do to his Steve in this place.

“He’s alive, Bucky,” Sam repeated, rubbing gentle circles over his back.

And for the first time since Steve had gone missing, Bucky hoped that wasn’t the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoped you enjoyed this new chapter! We'll get to see Steve in action in the next update so stay tuned. 
> 
> I'd love to hear your thoughts/reactions in the comments! Thanks for reading!!


	5. Daylight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay this week! I've been out of town for work. Hopefully it wasn't too long of a wait for you guys. :)

The first time he attempted to fight against his conditioning wasn’t so much a planned rebellion as it was a visceral response to a command that would destroy the tiny spark of humanity he’d been safeguarding.

It wasn’t even the first time the Soldier had killed for them. That dubious honor went to a fat, balding man who sweated so much that the Soldier could see the dark stains from his vantage point on the building outside his home. It hadn’t bothered him to pull the trigger then, like it was a burden his soul was used to carrying. What was one more death compared to the trail of blood he imagined dripping into the concrete below him, just out of sight?

So he’d allowed his new handlers to transport him to a new city and new skyline to commit one of humanity’s oldest sins. He didn’t bother to fight them then, although the way they flinched at each of his movements told him that was not always the case.

His memory was a sieve. New thoughts and old emotions slipping in and out before he had time to comprehend them. He felt like he was constantly off balance with it, lost in thought more often than not. 

His handlers thought it meant that whatever they were doing to keep him ready for the next mission was working. They started to give him more time between trips to the chair and more time out in the open to work his ops. It helped. Made him feel more in control of himself instead of a weapon that needed cleaning and proper storage to function.

Some days he was the Soldier, calm, cold, and violent as a winter storm. Others he was...someone else. Someone who flinched away from the spray of bright blood and devastation that his hands continued to create. Someone who continued to look for a flicker of gold and blue in a sea of faces without understanding why.

Today was one of those days were the lines blurred and he felt the source of the anger that flowed like blood through his body was the two laughing men at his side. 

They liked to pretend like he couldn’t hear the way they joked about him or mocked him for the dead-eyed stares that kept him safe from another round of violence. They believed they were safe from his wrath because he was too afraid of the darkness and pain to risk showing he wasn’t as blank as he seemed. It made them lazy, too confident around the predator in their midst.

He was careful--so careful--to keep up the pretense of being the creature of nightmare they wanted. To keep his interactions with his handlers and the outside world limited to choices that would bring him closer to their target and his freedom.

It was what brought him to this rooftop in the biting winds of autumn with his rifle to keep him company while his handler and ‘spotter’ hid in the shelter of the building. The spotter was nothing more than a cover for the armed guard his owners still insisted on assigning him. But both men had become complacent due to the dull nature of the extending stakeout for his target.

The name of his intended victim didn’t matter so much as the understanding that after years of working for UK military intelligence, he could have the training to make his murder more complicated. It was how the Soldier justified setting up his rifle on the roof of an abandoned tenement building across the street instead of risking an attack up close. No one questioned the decision and the Soldier had been careful to keep his pleasure at not having to watch the life fade from another person’s eyes contained. 

It was always easier to watch through the scope.

He slowly glanced down at the watch on his right wrist. Five minutes until the target returned to his home and concluded his time on earth. 

When he said as much to the men behind him, he could practically feel their adrenaline pulse. Soon they could return to the warmth of their own homes and leave Hydra’s favorite assassin to his cell.

The Soldier took a breath and exhaled, letting his mind slip into the quiet silence of impending death. A memory wiggled in his peripherals of a mustached man watching him do the same and laughing softly into the night.

_“You’re damned scary when you look like that, Sarge.”_

A blink and the memory was gone, slipping away into the quiet night. The Soldier turned the title over in his mind, lips shaping the word silently before deciding it fit. His chest ached like a bruise and he glanced back at the men behind him like the mustached man might appear there before he returned to the scope.

Movement distracted him from his thoughts and he shifted to follow the path of the sedan down the quiet neighborhood street. For a government operative, this target kept too tight of a schedule for the Soldier’s taste. He returned home each twilight to sit at the simple wooden table and smile up at his wife and the meal she prepared for him. It almost made the Soldier angry at how much this man risked with such behavior. There was no challenge to setting up a stand and waiting for his victim to arrive like a sheep to slaughter. 

The more senior of the two moved close enough to murmur into the Soldier’s ear, “Target’s changed. Take out the kid.”

The idea of shifting his crosshairs to the thin, blonde boy chattering happily to his father was enough for the Soldier to turn and glare at his handler. “Why? He’s just a kid.”

His handler blinked in surprise. “You aren’t here to ask questions, Soldier. If I tell you that the higher ups have decided to scare the original target instead of killing him, you pull the trigger. They want the kid gone and you’re going to make that happen.”

The Soldier flinched at the anger in the other man’s tone, but couldn’t seem to make his eyes focus back on the child across the street. His hands clenched and unclenched around the stock of his rifle, all of the killing calm from before evaporated. His eyes flicked to the way the boy was capering around his father and how the man smiled down and responded to one of the endless streams of questions coming from his child.

“Shoot him.”

The command made him flinch like he’d been struck and the Soldier heard the scuff of a boot nearby that warned that his guard was getting to his feet. His heart thundered in his throat and he obediently returned his attention to the scope.

Oblivious to the danger above them, the father asked the boy a question when the child paused in his rambling and coughed. The Soldier watched the concern on the man’s face bloom as the boy pressed a hand to his chest. He felt like he could hear the choked, pained breaths that his heart knew signaled an asthma attack.

Steve had been like that too.

The name burst across his mind like the first rays of dawn in an empty sky. _Steve._ Steve was missing. He was _hurt_. Christ, how could he ever forget Steve?

With Steve’s name came his own, like the two were a matching pair. Bucky. His name was Bucky and he needed to find his Steve.

His handler opened his mouth to give another order, but Bucky rolled into him, the blade in his hand sharp and swift. Blood spilled onto the dark cloth of his uniform in a familiar pattern. He didn’t bother to check if his handler was dead--that much blood could only mean one thing--just turned his attention toward the other threat.

The other guard made a squawking sound of surprise that Bucky silenced with an awkward throw of his knife from the ground that went wide and sank into the man’s shoulder. It had the added benefit of making him drop the gun, but he moved forward with enough purpose that Bucky knew he had special training.

They circled each other like two great predators and Bucky wished he still had his knife. He was only allowed the sniper rifle and the knife on missions that didn’t require a specific cause of death. Or maybe it was just to prevent moments like this.

The soldier snarled at Bucky, “I’m going to enjoy listening to you scream once I get you back to your cell. They’re never going to let you out again.”

“I won’t go back.”

“You don’t have anywhere else to go. You’ve never been anything but a weapon--even before they got hold of you.”

Bucky feinted forward, but the other man danced out of reach. “I have friends,” he said stubbornly, “My friends are looking for me.”

At this the soldier laughed with cruel delight. “Your _friends?_ Your friends are dead or worse. They never even found Captain America’s body.”

Bucky’s mind fractured and split around the roar that ripped from his heart. He rushed forward in a burst of speed and fury, using his left arm like the weapon it was to block the swipe of a knife and throw the man into the wall. Bucky was on him before he could move again, straddling him with one knee pressed against the knife wound in his shoulder to listen to him scream. He tried not to dwell on how good it felt to twist the knife into the mangled mass of tissue and bone.

“Doesn’t matter if you kill me,” the soldier spat with hate-filled eyes, “You don’t have anywhere to go but back to your cage like a good little monster.”

Bucky’s arm moved before his mind completed the thought, slamming into his enemy’s cheekbone with a crunch of bone. His right fist was nowhere near as powerful, but he didn’t care. He just kept up the relentless tempo until the wet sound covered up the howling pain in his chest.

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed hunched over the long-dead body of the nameless man. 

When he looked up against, the sky was grey with early morning and the temperature was cool enough that he could see his breath forming little clouds of condensation. His shoulders ached from the fight and his knees creaked when he forced himself to his feet again after so long on the floor.

It felt like he was carrying the weight of each of his years on earth like a chain around his neck and suddenly his plans for escaping were laughable.

What was the point if Steve was dead?

How could he face the ghost of the boy he’d loved on the streets of Brooklyn?

Bucky Barnes had died that day on the train. The creature that survived the ice and snow was a monster. A murderer and a coward.

He didn’t deserve to remember what had come before. He didn’t deserve even that piece of Steve or the others.

Slowly, Bucky sat down on the rough brick at the edge of the roof overlooking the skyline and watched the dawn break over the horizon, waiting for the pain he knew was coming.

It would be years before he saw the sky again.  
__________________________________________

Bucky wasn’t sure who was more surprised when he walked into Tony’s lab -- the Avengers huddled around the holographic screen or himself. After his outburst at Hydra’s lab, they had been on pins and needles waiting to see if he would lose himself in the rage and grief left behind by Hydra’s latest sin. As soon as they’d left Steve’s apartment, he’d begun to plan.

His time under Hydra and Pierce’s command had been a series of memories Bucky had personally avoided as much as possible. He didn’t want to remember what it was like to be helpless, to look into the eyes of men like Zola and not recognize them as his enemy. It was easier to focus on the countless faces of the people he’d murdered to scrape away at his soul.

Now, each horrible memory from the decades under Hydra’s command represented another clue that could save Steve.

Natasha noticed him first, of course, and gave him an accessing look paired with the faint smile that meant she approved of his presence. It shouldn’t matter much to him, but it made some of the tension in his chest ease.

“--information is inconclusive. Hydra’s gone radio silent,” Clint muttered with a irritated glare at the papers scattered in front of him. “If they’re attempting to create another Winter Soldier, we need to move fast. We’re too far behind this.”

“I’ve got Jarvis scanning through every newsfeed in America to--” Tony started, but Bucky cut him off.

“They won’t start in America.”

Every eye in the room suddenly shifted to where Bucky stood only a few feet away from them with what Steve used to call his ‘killing face’ on. Sam’s eyes narrowed on him, scanning his body like he could sense the fractures underneath.

When no one responded to his statement, he continued, “Until the programming is complete, they’ll keep him on short ops with multiple handlers and guards in place. They won’t risk him running into someone or something that will remind him of who he really is.”

An awkward silence filled the room as they digested this information.

Natasha glanced at the screen in front of her thoughtfully. “So you’re thinking Europe?”

Bucky took a step closer, reaching out to the screen to adjust the view. “Maybe, but nowhere near where he traveled in the war. Might go for Africa or Russia too,” he paused for a moment, “You still have contacts in the Red Room?”

She nodded and Bucky was sure he was the only one who noticed how tight her shoulders had become.

“See if Hydra is making any moves toward them. Whoever took,” His throat seized at the name and he forced himself to swallow hard, “whoever planned this is going to use Steve for more than knocking off a few nosy politicians.”

“I’ll check in with my contacts in Europe as well,” Clint offered, his eyes soft when he looked over at Natasha. “We can narrow down the search parameters as much as possible.”

“Stark-” The man in question jumped when Bucky turned his attention on him, “-is there a way to adjust Jarvis’ search through CCTV to include Steve? They’ll attempt to keep him disguised, but he’ll be on the move soon.”

Tony nodded, some of his discomfort disappearing now that he had a task to complete. Within a few seconds his fingers were tapping quickly at the screens closest to him.

When the question came, Bucky was surprised by who managed to get the courage to ask it.

“How long did it take before you forgot?” Sam asked.

Bucky swallowed hard, trying not to spiral. Trying to avoid the bright flashes of light and burning pain that always predated another trip into the inky blackness of the sensory deprivation chambers where he fought against hallucinations and nightmares long enough that he began to crave the chair that chased such thoughts away. Trying to remind himself that Steve _needed_ him to be strong. 

“A few months, I think, before they let me out. Longer before they eased their safeguards. I wasn’t aware enough to really track the days.” He was proud of the eveness of his tone and the way his hands remained steady at his sides. “They tried to incorporate who I was before they captured me so that the old and new memories blurred and merged into one narrative.”

A mission dossier with the name ‘Steve Rogers’ carefully typed beside the ‘Commanding Officer’ placard caught his attention and he pulled it free to glance over the information. It was little more than an attempt to chase away the shadows that were clinging to him, but a memory still wriggled free. Daylight streaking across the pale greys of the sky, highlighting the streaks of blood that painted his clothes.

This time his voice felt like glass shards ripping out of his throat, “They told me I was still in the war. That everyone I killed was a monster and that their deaths would save thousands--all the things my old officers would tell me before I got sent out. They’ll do the same to him.”

“Steve never went on that type of mission,” Natasha said and Bucky tried to imagine it was affection coloring her blunt summary of Steve’s career at SHIELD. “I can count on one hand how many times I’ve seen him reach for a gun.”

“So they’ll convince him that he’s still working similar ops. What did he specialize in?”

“Hostage recovery mostly,” she replied and gave a faint huff of laughter, “with an occasional foray into aliens and murderous robots.”

Bucky frowned down at the table, resisting the urge to pick at the fabric of his shirt. His willpower had collapsed in the empty space outside Steve’s door and he’d slipped inside before he could resist the urge. He’d pulled free one of the plain white shirts Steve liked to wear on his days off and breathed in the familiar, comforting scent of home. Wearing it helped keep him steady and in control of his own mind in the face of the insanity of a world where Steve Rogers would soon be contemplating the murder of innocents.

“I’m glad I wasn’t there for that.” A lie. He would walk through hell barefoot and unarmed if it meant he could watch Steve’s back.

There was a beat of silence where everyone in the room seemed to search for a way to respond to that.

“Steve is stubborn enough that they will probably attempt to create trigger words to keep him focused,” Bucky continued flatly. It was too difficult to meet their eyes so he toyed with the manilla folder in front of him. “But the triggers aren’t foolproof--especially not right away.”

“How did you break your conditioning?” Tony asked.

Bucky considered the question for a moment. They knew the bare bones of how Steve had ripped apart all the careful conditioning with one word and sheer stubborn determination. Seeing him for the first time had been the first time in decades that he’d felt something. The first time he’d dared to question the lies Hydra had been feeding him.

When he said as much, Natasha looked thoughtful. “We could create our own triggers to keep Steve fighting against their training.”

“You think pictures would be enough?” Tony asked, fingers moving over the small screen in his hand, “Pepper could get us a few commercial spots, I’m sure. We could pretend to release a few PSAs or something, pretend it’s a media stunt.”

Bucky nodded, “That might help if we can’t locate him before his first mission.”

Natasha glanced at him, expression carefully neutral. “Yasha...you’ll have to record something. You won’t be able to keep your anonymity in this.”

It was a carefully guarded truth of his continued presence at the Tower. There were too many ghosts in his past for any government to accept his continued existence in their borders. So far, he’d been lucky for the opportunity to hide in the shadows of Steve and the rest of the Avenger’s fame. If Bucky stepped into the spotlight for this, he wouldn’t be able to hide from the world again.

“Steve would do the same for me.”

And Bucky would not let him go without a fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a little less action-heavy as the next chapters will be, but hopefully it wasn't too boring. We'll see Steve/Nomad in the next chapter though.
> 
> Thanks for reading! And special special thanks for those of you who left me a comment!! You are wonderful and I love you so much! Hearing from you makes my heart so happy.


	6. Benign

In the months after Sarah Rogers passed away, there were few days where Steve could manage to remember that he was still young, still alive, still every bit as deserving of happiness as he had been before his mother’s death. Bucky could see the stiff way Steve held himself after her funeral, looking for the first time like he might not have the willpower to continue on without her.

The thought was enough to give Bucky nightmares for weeks.

So Bucky gathered every penny he’d managed to squirrel away -- even begged a few from Becca with promises to her chores for the next six months -- and dragged Steve kicking and screaming out of his too-empty apartment and onto the subway. 

After he’d finally acknowledged that this day was happening whether he liked it or not, Steve finally allowed Bucky to buying him a hotdog and a soda pop from one of the roadside vendors on the outskirts of Coney Island. They fell into the easy comradery that colored most of their interactions since their friendship began, pushing each other towards whatever ride or game struck their fancy.

It was a perfect day, but one that tasted like the final dregs of some delicious drink. 

Bucky felt like he was fighting against an ocean current that threatened to drag him out to sea. Like if he took his eyes off Steve, he would lose sight of him forever. It drove him to push harder than he would normally, mixing bad jokes with half-hearted teasing that felt unnaturally urgent. 

Steve seemed to sense his odd mood and put aside his own dark mood in favor of appeasing Bucky’s whims with patience. They walked down the boardwalk until the afternoon sun beat down on them and they ducked off the path to walk barefoot in the sun watching the families playing there. The water felt cool and wonderful against too hot skin and Bucky occasionally flicked bits of seawater at Steve who laughed and returned the favor.

“We should probably be getting back, Buck.”

Steve’s voice shattered the bits of happiness Bucky had been scrabbling at all day and he sighed, “You got some hot date tonight, Rogers?”

Blue eyes rolled heavenward in a familiar gesture. “Only you, Bucky bear.”

Bucky shoved at him playfully. “I told you not to call me that, punk. I have a reputation to maintain after all.”

“You aren’t fooling anyone, Barnes. You’re just a sap,” Steve said with a smirk.

“I’ll show you,” Bucky replied quickly, eyes scanning the pier with a sudden idea. “We’re riding that before we leave.”

 _That_ was a ride neither one of them had ever risked or had the money to waste on before.

The Cyclone was silhouetted against the blue sky like some great, hulking beast. Seemingly pleasantly benign until the moment you latched in your seat belt and surrendered your control over to it. Then it became a whirlwind of terror and speed.

The sight of it was enough to send a bolt of reckless adrenaline down his spine, making his fingers tingle with the new rush of blood. Bucky had always been a daredevil when it came to thrills like this while Steve preferred to enjoy the sights and sounds of the crowd. People liked to think Steve was incapable of the kinds of stunts Bucky liked to pull.

But they’d never seen the vicious glint in the smaller boy’s eyes the moment before he rushed headlong into a fight he knew he’d never win.

It was the universe’s great joke that Steve was given this frail, sickly body to house his warrior’s soul. He should be broad and strong so he could tumble headfirst into trouble without risking so much. To do so without the benefit of muscle and stamina made Steve displayed a level of bravery that left Bucky breathless and choking down his heart in his throat. 

“You want to ride _that_?” Steve grumbled with a peeved stare directed at the iconic ride. “Why can’t we get some ice cream and walk around?”

The thought of ice cream was tempting to his love of sweets -- which was exactly why Steve had mentioned it, the jerk -- but he had his heart set on finally forcing Steve onto his favorite ride. If he wanted to analyze his sudden need to let Steve experience the same rush he felt riding the Cyclone, he’d know that this was nothing more than the latest in a long list of plans to make his best friend smile again. 

“Yep,” Bucky replied cheerfully and managed not to wince when he handed over a nickel to cover the cost of the ride. “Unless you’re scared, Stevie?”

“The only thing I’m scared of is your breath after you puke your guts up on this stupid ride.”

Bucky only winked at him and led the way toward one of the open seats. He gestured Steve forward with a dramatic flourish that made his friend snicker and slide onto the warm metal. The leather buckles there seemed woefully underwhelming against the backdrop of welded metal and pulsing nerves from the riders. He leaned over and made certain Steve’s were tight enough before buckling his own, trying not to think about how thin Steve was becoming or how fragile he looked.

A bell rang near the ticket booth, signaling the ride was about to begin and Bucky aimed a wild grin at his best friend. “You ready for this?”

“Of course I am.” 

They weren’t.

The Cyclone did and would always represent a fierce sort of madness. It’s moments of joy punctuated by a body’s instinctive panic away from anything that caused your heart to race or your stomach to float in nauseating loops. But it was worth it to hear Steve’s breathless laugh at the strangled yelp Bucky made on the first hairpin turn or to feel thin, artist’s fingers wrap around his in a comforting grip.

When the ride finally came to a screeching stop, they walked away on trembling legs, laughing and leaning on each other like two drunks after a long night out. 

“That was amazing!” Bucky crowed, slinging an arm around Steve’s thin shoulders. “We need to go again!”

Steve smiled, blue eyes bright and luminous, and promptly vomited all over Bucky’s favorite pair of shoes.

________________________________________

Bucky’s world returned to the endless waking hours that had colored his first months back at the Tower. Then he’d had Steve to help anchor himself in reality, endlessly patient and understanding. Now there was nothing to keep him sane aside from Jarvis and a seemingly endless stream of data that may hold some clue to finding Steve.

He stared down at the piles of paperwork and information on each of the missions Steve had completed in his time at SHIELD and with the Avengers. Countless examples of reckless courage and enough ridiculous stunts that Bucky wanted to strangle every member of the STRIKE team that allowed it. 

Who the _hell_ jumps out of an airplane without a fucking parachute? 

Steve Rogers, that’s who.

Mentally he added this to the growing list of reasons why he was going to lock Steve away somewhere safe as soon as he found him. Clearly being frozen in ice for decades had fragmented what little sense of self preservation he had. Christ, Bucky thought the stunts they’d pulled during the war were bad enough -- now he knew Steve had been risking his life without bothering to wait for any team to watch his back.

“Jarvis, bring up the news feeds.”

“Right away, Sergeant.” The smooth male voice was all politeness and Bucky ignored the slight note of censure he could hear in it. It was clear the AI was intelligent enough to know that even a super soldier needed more sleep than Bucky was managing now.

He couldn’t even muster any surprise that he was becoming friends with an disembodied voice.

Instead, he watched the scrolling list of headlines trending around the world with a sharp eye. Any one of them could hold some clue as to where Hydra was going to deploy Steve. It had already been months since his disappearance and Bucky was certain that it wouldn’t be long before they deployed him in the field. It would have to be a mission similar to the ones scattered in front of him, but that barely limited the options.

His eyes snagged on a news story developing just outside of Sofia, Bulgaria.

‘Police Searching for Suspects in Bombing Near Capital’

It teased at some memory in his brain and Bucky shuffled through the papers again. “Jarvis, bring up the article on the Bulgarian case.”

For the first time in over a week, Bucky felt the stirrings of adrenaline and hope teasing his heart into a faster rhythm. Images flickered to life on the wall beside them and he felt himself getting to his feet and pacing across the floor to get closer to them. His eyes traced the outlines of buildings until they matched the images he’d memorized in the files.

“Isn’t there a SHIELD base there?” His words were little more than a whisper, but he knew Jarvis would run the search.

“There is a safe house located there where they store prisoners still in the process of being investigated.”

“Call the others,” Bucky ordered briskly, jogging to where his uniform was lying stretched across his unmade bed. “That’s where they’re going to send him. We leave in ten minutes.”

_________________________________________

Tony Stark may not have been the same man his father was, but he was more than skilled enough when it came to designing high speed methods of travel. Sometimes Bucky could even close his eyes and pretend that his rambling anecdotes belonged to the ghost of a man long dead. Even considering heir rocky past, Steve trusted Tony to do the right thing--which meant Bucky was willing to trust him. It helped that with the help of his quinjet, their small team would arrive in Bulgaria in less than an hour barring any complications.

Which was an hour longer than Bucky’s patience could manage.

Even Sam had grown tired of his restless pacing and retreated to the cockpit to sit with Tony. Bucky’s mind was an endless stream of plans and useless details that may be able to help find track down Steve. He tried to think of any Hydra safe houses in this regions, but dismissed them just as quickly. The same with any of the Hydra plants left in the area for agents to get into contact with. The new leaders would have erased any operations that interacted with the Winter Soldier after he was compromised. He hoped the overhaul had been a pain in their collective asses.

Bucky wasn’t sure why he was so certain that this was the break they’d been waiting for. It was little more than a few fragile links between Steve’s record of hostage rescues and Hydra activities, but Bucky couldn’t shake his gut response to the news article. This was the first of many opportunities for Steve’s new handlers to manipulate his personality to suit their needs. All they would need to do was tell him that the people being held by SHIELD were being harmed in some way and all of Steve’s protective instincts would come thundering out.

He wished there had been time to wait for more of the Avengers to ship out. Natasha and Clint were in the wind still so they could track down any of their contracts that might be able to assist in the hunt for Steve. As much as he appreciated their efforts, he missed Natasha’s steady presence and familiar skill set. She was dedicated to Steve and he knew she would do everything in her power to keep a friend safe. Such a thing was too rare in their line of work.

His fingers tracked over the weapons he’d hastily strapped on before rushing out to the launch bay and onto the ship. He’d barely managed to wait long enough for Tony and Sam to scramble on, still in their pajamas. _Not enough,_ the dark part of his mind supplied grimly, _you won’t be fast enough to save him from the damage that’s already been done._

Before he could continue his internal argument, the red light by the exit ramp flashed to signal that they were beginning to land. Bucky reached up to the earpiece Stark had handed to him and muttered, “Stay in the skies and out of sight as much as possible -- they’ll run if they catch word that we’re in the area.”

“This ain’t our first rodeo, cyborg,” Tony griped. “Just because you’re a badass doesn’t mean I’ll let you boss me around.”

Sam sighed noisily into the mic sewn into the color of his suit. “We don’t have time for bickering and I sure as hell don’t have enough sleep to break up your catfight.”

“Fine. Fine,” Tony grumbled as the faceplate of his armor fell into place. “I’ll cover our resident geriatric assassin from above. Sam, you watch for any unexpected activity and cover the jet.”

Bucky didn’t bother to wait for their responses, just leapt onto the concrete of a quiet side street and melted into the shadows. Mentally he traced over the city map he’d memorized along with the blueprints from the large walk-in clinic that served as SHIELD’s cover for their activity. Bright blue and red lights signalled that the local law enforcement had already surrounded the building in reaction to whatever alarms had been tripped by Hydra’s team. He was willing to bet more than one of the agents working the case belonged to SHIELD.

Instead of moving closer, he slipped into one of the nearby alleyways and let it take him towards the outskirts of town. An hour was more than enough time for someone with Captain America’s skillset to get in and remove the prisoners from SHIELD’s cells. Now they would be more focused on escaping the city before a larger team was summoned to complicate things.

“Stark, any large vehicles in this area?” Bucky murmured into his mic.

“I’ve got eyes on two trucks large enough to carry the number of people involved in this jailbroke. The security footage shows at least a four man team pulling six hostages out.”

“You and Sam take the two trucks -- I’ll circle back to cover possible exit routes.”

“Roger, roger.”

Bucky glanced up at the skyline to check for any sign of their presence as they tracked the other trucks and was satisfied that the two men were able to manage a stealth mission at night. He focused on keeping his posture casual but quick, just like any other impatient worker on their way home after a long day. His suit was dark enough to cover most of his weapons so long as he kept out of the street lights scattered along the road he’d marked as a possible exit route.

“I’ve got eyes on the first truck,” Sam reported through the coms, “It’s a negative for any hostiles.”

“Confirmed,” Bucky replied under his breath. “Stark?”

The sound of an explosion was at once familiar and horribly foreign on the relative silence of nighttime in the sleepy suburbs. Bucky forced himself to take a deep breath and tried to fight the nausea that comes with a cold burst of understanding and a memory that returned too late. 

Steve, his long, artist’s fingers working quickly over the tangled mass of wires under Dernier’s watchful eye. 

He’d forgotten Steve’s fascination with the explosives their unit had toted around for emergencies or when Steve’s strength wasn’t enough to deviate their enemies. Forgotten how impressed the Frenchman had been at Steve’s quick understanding because Steve always disliked the way a bomb could destroy friends and enemies alike. 

But a moral compass would be the first thing Hydra burned out of his mind. 

Gunfire spat to life further down the street and he cursed viciously. “The trucks are a diversion!” he called down the staticky com line. “Get to me!”

There was no response so Bucky angled his body so his back was to the wall and began to jog towards the sound of a firefight. Mentally he organized what weapons he carried with an eye towards what would be the most helpful in this fight. The small gun rigged with a tranquilizer dart hung like a lead weight at his side. All he needed was one chance and he could drag Steve back to the Tower and the teams of doctors that were waiting to reverse the effects of Hydra’s conditioning.

Another bloom of red fire shivered through the night, close enough that he felt the heat lick greedily against his skin and chase away the shadows Bucky instinctively hid among. The sudden light left him momentarily blind and helplessly blinking in an effort to regain his night vision. He spun in a slow circle, hand closing around the comforting weight of his handgun and eyes scanning the building around him for any sign of their attackers. 

He had enough time to shout into his mic, “It’s Steve!” 

Then the impact of the bullet hit him high in the chest and threw him to the ground in a spray of blood and pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be from Steve's POV! Drop me a comment below if the spirit moves you! I love hearing back from each of you and cherish each one of them!
> 
> Thanks for reading!!


	7. Nine

When Bucky was nine years old, George and Winnifred Barnes welcomed a new baby into their crowded apartment. Rebecca Barnes looked like an overcooked potato with a set of pipes that was enough to drive Bucky out of the apartment and into the relative safety of the streets. He wandered around the familiar neighborhood sights with all the confidence and beleaguered exasperation of a boy who know that his world was falling apart.

It was on one of his walkabouts that he first ran into one of the gangs of teenage boys who liked to use the looming depression as an excuse to act like thugs. They liked to pick on younger and smaller victims whenever they got the chance and were numerous enough that Bucky was careful to avoid the streets and alleyways where they liked to hunt. Walking alone was too much of a risk in a time when jobs were scarce and people were desperate.

Bucky was tall for his age and proud of the advantage his early growth spurt gave him for the squabbles among his peers. More useful was his growing ability to charm his way into anyone strong enough to do serious damage. The old ladies in the neighborhood liked to sneak him scraps and sweets and coo over the ‘nice young man with good manners’ whenever he stopped by. He was growing comfortable in himself even if he was impatient for the kind of independence of adulthood.

For now, he had to be content with remaining one of the countless grubby kids running around Brooklyn.

But even he couldn’t resist his curiosity when his ears picked up the sounds of a fight in the narrow alley beside an abandoned Italian restaurant. 

He glanced towards his home where he knew his ma would be expecting him before shifting his path to pass by the space between the two buildings. The sounds of laughter and raised voices added to his interest and he slipped into the space behind of the dumpsters quietly. Whoever it was was too busy beating the shit out of someone else to notice Bucky standing nearby so he took a chance and moved close enough to see who had had the misfortune of running afoul of these thugs.

Bucky wasn’t surprised to see the familiar broad shoulders of the Prewitt boy hunched over a smaller form crouched on the dirty concrete at their feet. They were mean sons of bitches even at age twelve and thirteen. The rumor was they inherited their father’s nasty temper though the neighborhood was careful to look the other way when they appeared with visible bruises. It was clear to Bucky that they brothers had chosen to turn their rage on the world in the only way they knew how.

The kid on the ground was a different story. Bucky caught glints of short hair and pale skin in the fading light, bright against the dirt and blood that covered him. Mostly he just looked delicate and far too small to be snarling in fury up at the two boys who were too busy laughing at him to notice the lion in their midst.

“Had enough yet?” the larger of the two brothers--Tommy, Bucky thought-- asked, nudging his sibling like he’d told a joke.

The blonde sniffed at the blood on his nose and used one dirty sleeve to wipe away the liquid in a dark streak across his high cheekbones. Like war paint, Bucky thought dimly. When he grinned, it was so beautiful and fierce that Bucky felt his breath catch at his body’s visceral reaction.

“I was just getting started,” the boy spat and Bucky didn’t need to see the Prewitt boys’ faces to know they were glowering down at him.

When the tiny warrior started to get to his feet again, one of the older boys lashed out, quick as a snake, and sent him flying into the dirty concrete again. This time Bucky could smell the sharp tang of blood when he instinctively threw out his hands to catch himself. Tommy pulled his leg back to kick at his victim who curled instinctively into a ball in an attempt to save himself.

And Bucky _moved_.

It wasn’t a rational choice to rush forward with one of the empty milk bottles that was out to be refilled brandished like a weapon. Just a wildfire of rage and a smothered need for justice that felt too large, too intense to contain in such a young body. Bucky poured every ounce of speed and strength into his limbs and hurled the bottle using every trick George Barnes had shown him the year he’d bought Bucky his first baseball mitt.

The larger boy fell like a stone to the concrete, showered in tiny fragments of broken glass. Bucky skidded to a halt a few feet away, chest heaving and adrenaline thundering in his veins. Tommy and the boy gaped at him and he swallowed hard. “Pick on someone your own size,” he finally blurted and the blonde blinked in surprise.

Tommy recovered quickly and, unfortunately, so did his brother. He caught Bucky high on his right cheekbone with a punch that made stars dance in his vision. Bucky barely managed to stumble out of range before Tommy caught him with another.

Jacob Prewitt glowered at Bucky as he slowly got to his feet and ran his fingers over the lump on the back of his head. “You’re going to regret that, you little shit,” he promised.

“Probably,” Bucky agreed.

The older boys started forward and Bucky let them herd him toward where the blonde was still crouched on the ground, mind racing. There was no way he could win against two older, stronger bullies and he didn’t want to risk them calling in more friends to help. His mother was too wrapped up in taking care of Becca to notice if Bucky was a little late getting home so he couldn’t rely on his parents to come save him.

When his foot hit something soft, Bucky looked down into the bluest eyes he’d ever seen and felt a new wave of determination. He may not be able to outfight the Prewitt boys, but he was willing to bet he was smarter than them.

He scanned the alley again, eyeing the stacks of wooden pallets and metal cans for any kind of weapon. The boy beside him was wheezing a little as he got back to his feet and Bucky winced sympathetically. He reached down to offer his hand and the blonde glared at it as though it personally offended him.

“Looks like we got a two for one special tonight,” Tommy crowed. “Maybe we can get the rest of the boys down here and let them have some fun too.”

If facing the Prewitt brothers alone was bad odds, Bucky didn’t want to think about what would happen if the rest of their friends showed up. They needed to get out of this alley. Now.

“Can you run?” Bucky whispered as quietly as he could to the blonde.

Blue eyes flicked to his lips and frowned for a moment before slowly nodding. Relief shot through him at the sight and Bucky returned his attention to the Prewitt boys, tightening his hold on his new partner in crime.

“What are you girls whispering about, huh?” Jacob growled, taking a step forward aggressively. 

Bucky gave him a slow smirk, letting his eyes trail over the bigger boy with disdain. “We were just wondering if you could get it up on your own or if your brother had to help you with that too?”

“You little--” Tommy and Jacob moved forward with violence in their eyes and pain running through each line of their clenched fists.

Bucky waited until they were only a few feet away, until the blonde was nearly vibrating with the need to fight, before he pivoted and slammed his shoulder into the stack of pallets next to him. Time went slow as the pallets creaked dangerously before finally tumbling over with a crash--right on top of the Prewitt boys.

“Run!” Bucky yelled and tightened his hold on the smaller boy’s hand so he could haul him along behind him.

The pallets wouldn’t be enough to stop the older brothers for long, but hopefully it would give them enough time to get some distance between them. Bucky used every one of the passageways and curling paths he’d learned over his wanderings until his chest started to burn and his legs protested the abuse. The boy at his side was sucking in noisy lungfuls of air, but didn’t complain at the rough pace. 

When Bucky was certain they weren’t being followed, he slowly came to a stop and rested his hands on his knees to try to catch his breath. The movement reminded him that he’d been holding on to the blonde’s hand for the entire run and his fingers smarted as blood slowly trickled back into them. He eyed the other boy curiously and frowned when he realized how pale he was.

“You okay, kid?” 

The blonde scowled at him weakly, thin chest shuddering under the onslaught of what Bucky was alarmed to recognize as an asthma attack. Panic burst to life at the memory of how terrifying it had been to watch one of the little girls in his Sunday school faint before her father could retrieve the special cigarettes they carried with them.

“Shit,” Bucky said, reaching out to brace the other boy, “do you have medicine?”

The blonde nodded, long fingers feebly pointing toward his pocket and Bucky quickly batted them away. A quick search uncovered a thin cigarette case with a few strong smelling cigarettes and a packet of matches. He pretended not to notice the way his hands were shaking as he carefully lit one of them and held it out for the other boy to take.

For several tense minutes they stayed silent, waiting for the medicine to take effect. Bucky rubbed soothing circles on the other boys too-thin shoulders, hoping that would help. 

Abruptly, the smaller boy shoved off his hand and glared at him. “I don’t need your help,” he growled with a voice that sounded too deep for his delicate body, “I’m not a baby.”

Bucky blinked. “Yeah, you looked like you were having the time of your life back there.”

“What’s it to you?”

“Nothing, you punk. Just thought you could use a friend.” 

Now it was the other boy’s turn to blink in surprise.

 

“What’s your name, blondie?” Bucky finally asked, fighting against the urge to laugh or frown at the smaller boy.

The blonde sniffed, fingers going gingerly to his broken nose while he glared at Bucky. Eventually he gave a slow, surprisingly sweet smile that contrasted oddly with the streaks on blood on his pale face. The hand he extended was thin and shook slightly from the adrenaline beginning to leave his body, but his voice was surprisingly even. 

“I’m Steve. Steve Rogers.”

__________________________________________

The Asset stared down at the soldier lying wounded on the street below from the safety of the third story balcony, biting back a wave of unexpected frustration that rang with the same echoing frequency of the echo of the rifle beside him. Thankfully his ‘partner’ was too busy grinning like mad at his successful shot to notice the Asset’s foul mood.

“Not bad for our first gig, eh?” Dolohov said quietly, still focused on the scope and not the looming presence beside him. “Your bombs will keep them busy for the next couple hours while we make our rendezvous.”

The Asset wondered if the sniper had noticed the way he had shifted just before the man took the shot, altering it slightly.

It was a subtle rebellion, to make these ‘missions’ go slightly awry, and one the Asset enjoyed maintaining. Despite their continued insistence that he was a soldier, a hero in a war that would change the world, he found himself unable to believe that words that dripped like poison from the lips of men who smiled each time they dragged him back to the chair. Even if he couldn’t remember details like his name or where he’d come from, the Asset knew the people who controlled him were evil.

The man below them twitched, fingers going up to press against the dark stain on his shoulder and the Asset scowled. _Stay down,_ he wanted to tell him. _Stay down and play dead if you know what’s good for you._ Oblivious to his thoughts, the man scuttled backward painfully, his left arm moving awkwardly as though it wasn’t working correctly.

“Wonder if he’s one of the Avengers,” Dolohov said, too focused on chatting with his silent partner to note the movement. “I bet I get a raise if I shoot one of _them._ ”

It never seemed to bother Dolohov that the Asset never responded. That he _couldn’t_ respond with more than a grunt thanks to the mask and helmet they kept latched around his head at all times. It had been carefully crafted to keep the Asset contained until one of his handlers unlocked the mechanism, leaving him completely at their mercy if he didn’t want to slowly starve to death.

Yet another thing they would pay for once the Asset was free.

Still, Dolohov’s chatter was an easier burden to bear compared to the rough handling and near-constant beatings of his last handler. The Asset was still mildly surprised that no fingers had been pointed his direction when the man’s body was never recovered, despite the conspicuous amount of blood left in his apartment. Not that there had been much left to find.

Dolohov also represented one of the more confusing clues to the Asset’s true identity. Even after months of training and careful testing in one of the heavily reinforced bunkers where he was housed between missions, his handlers always chose to keep him in close proximity with a sniper. 

At first, he’d thought it was a final fail safe should he become unmanagable while they were on a mission. That one day he’d feel those crosshairs line up with his skull a moment before a bullet lodged itself in his brain. He kept track of the snipers’ presence in the carefully scratched images on the bottom of the bunk in his cell so it wasn’t wiped away by another visit to the chair. 

The presence of the brunette sniper with watery blue eyes by his side was at once familiar and uncomfortable like an ill-fitting sweater. It hung oddly in his mind, mixing with a confusing series of images left by the dreams that always faded by morning. A quick smirk. The sound of a scream trailing long and loud against the sound of a train. Gleaming metal against skin and scars.

Sometimes he could even remember the sound of a deep voice comforting him or teasing him into a smile that never seemed to last in the light of day.

The Asset was jolted out of his thoughts when the man below them shifted painfully backward, moving toward cover. Dolohov cursed under his breath and raised his gun to his shoulder again to take aim. The sound of gunfire felt louder than usual and the Asset flinched subtly before he realized that the shot had come from the soldier below not the one at he side.

 _Good for you,_ he thought with a burst of approval for the injured man. _Don’t let them take you down without a fight._

“Nomad,” Dolohov snapped and the Asset slowly shifted his attention back to him, “take him out.”

Not for the first time the urge to rebel shivered to life and he had to grit his teeth until his jaw ached to resist it. Dolohov was a coward at heart and it didn’t surprise him that his handler wouldn’t want to risk the soldier up close. Without bothering to acknowledge the order, the Asset stepped off the side of the building and landed with a jarring thud on the concrete below. He let the pain in his ankles and knees from the fall center him as he stood to his full height and faced the man bleeding on the ground.

Wide, pale eyes met his through the mask and the Asset found himself pausing in surprise at the sudden tightness in his chest. His fingers twitched oddly at his side, not for a knife or a gun but...something softer. Some tool that could imprint the shape of the soldier’s jawline or the perfect cupid’s bow of his mouth. He wanted to reach out and wipe away the heavy line between the dark slashes of his brow or the pain bracketing his mouth.

The soldier was beautiful. 

Without knowing why, the Asset stepped towards him with one hand outstretched and it was only instinct that saved him from the knife that the soldier threw with surprising strength at his head. That instinct had him pulling the small shield free from his back and letting the dark metal deflect the threat before it landed.

Calling the round object in his hands a shield felt like a lie. A shield was designed to protect, to shelter. Whoever had crafted it for the Asset designed his shield to maim and harm anyone it came in contact with. The edges had been sharpened to a razor’s edge that was sharp enough to eviscerate anything in its’ path. Already its surface was dented and marred by the last mission he’d completed, the knicks and scratches like bright scars on the dark surface.

Still, it was the only weapon the trainers had given him that felt...familiar. Guns were too loud, too foreign for him to choose. Knives were too rough for his taste -- he would only use them if it was ordered of him. The shield was barbaric, but it hung in his hands like an old friend.

When he raised it again, the injured soldier was gaping at him with an odd assortment of emotions moving across his expressive face. His mouth opened and closed twice before any sound emerged. “S... _Steve?_ ” 

The words were little more than a whisper but they had the same passion as any prayer or benediction. They echoed in his mind, jangling oddly against the corners of his fractured mind. Who the hell was Steve? The word was meaningless--like some phrase he’d forgotten over time.

He was an asset. A weapon and nothing more.

Before he could speak again, something large slammed into the Asset’s side, throwing him to the ground. He rolled coming up on one knee in time to block a flurry of gunfire that spit into his shield and the ground around him. One of the men from the mission dossier hovered above him with the help of two metallic wings that mimicked the movements of a bird. The Falcon. He aimed two submachine guns at the Asset, using them to force him away from the downed soldier.

The Asset was forced to take this in a brief instance before his training kicked in and he was in motion. He flung the shield as hard as he could at the Falcon and listened to the protesting shriek of metal as it connected with the right wing. It sent the other man into a spiral that ended with him slamming into the side of the nearest building in a tangle of limbs.

“Steve! NO!” the injured soldier yelled behind him, but the Asset ignored him in favor of scooping up his shield from the ground and prowling toward his fallen foe. Strong arms wrapped around his arms and yanked him backwards into a broad, bloodstained chest, “Stop, please, Stevie. Don’t do this.”

“ _That’s Steve?!_ ” the Falcon’s voice was hoarse with pain, but his hands remained steady on his weapons. His movements were beginning to slow and become disjointed. Concussion, the Asset diagnosed with a nod of approval. He wouldn’t return to the fight. “Bucky--”

Whatever Falcon would’ve said to Bucky was cut off when the Asset slammed his elbow backwards into the soldier, following it with a brutal kick to the chest that threw him back several feet. The brunette skidded painfully on the concrete, hands outstretched in a placating gesture that the Asset ignored in favor of pulling free one of his knives from the hidden sheathe on his thigh and return his shield to the holder on his back. A gun, he reasoned, would attract more attention and he didn’t want to risk more Avengers coming on scene. The knife would have to do for him to complete his mission.

The metal flashed in the dim light of the street, reflecting the fire burning nearby, but the injured man kept his eyes fixed on the Asset’s face around the dark mask obscuring his features. 

“Stevie...it’s me. It’s Bucky,” he said, voice low enough that Dolohov wouldn’t be able to hear it from where he was attempting to shift into a better sightline for his next shot. The name was strange and caused his body to twitch with the urge to do...something. Something that would only lead to another punishment from his handlers. Instead, the Asset shifted slightly so his body was blocking the sniper’s view of the soldier--Bucky--without analyzing the urge. 

Bucky continued to speak softly, “I know you probably won’t remember, but you gotta trust me. The people who took you--they’re trying to control you, buddy. You have to fight them.”

The Asset’s jaw flexed painfully beneath the mask, the urge to speak nearly overwhelming. He wanted to protest the assumption that he wasn’t aware that he was being used, but even that had been taken from him. His eyes flicked up to where Dolohov would be waiting for him, waiting for him to finish this and return like a dog to its master.

“ _Don’t go…_ ” 

The pleading note in Bucky’s voice hung oddly on the air and made the Asset’s hands clench at his side. He shook his head slowly, unable to voice an explanation for why he couldn’t just take the chance and go with these strangers. Even if he did, it would only be a matter of time before the charges set into the muzzle locked on his face killed him. Maybe they would wait long enough for his body to begin burning through his muscle in search of nutrients.

Bucky took a hesitant step forward, ignoring the way the Asset’s grip tightened around his knife. His gait was swaying and the Asset noted the way his blood was dripping down his arm onto the scarred pavement in a staccato rhythm. “Been lookin’ for you for months, pal. Christ, Steve, I’ve been going out of my mind worryin’ about you.”

There was a click behind them, high and to the right and the Asset knew his time was up. His behavior was already enough to warrant a trip to the chair and a beating for good measure, but he couldn’t summon the strength or control needed to kill this man. He couldn’t kill the first person who’d treated him like a person instead of a weapon.

He sure as hell wouldn’t let Dolohov take the shot.

As if sensing the shift, Bucky’s eyes scanned the rooftops around them. “They got you on a short leash, huh?”

The Asset growled irritably and the other man smiled, quick and fierce.

“Yeah, I bet you just love that,” Bucky muttered. “You never did like someone telling you what to do.”

The words triggered a memory of a rough voice telling him to stay with the chorus girls and stay safe. To stay out of the fight. The Asset took a deep breath through his nose and winced at the spike of pain the memory seemed to drive through his skull.

The other man was watching him with a complicated expression, like it was taking all his effort not to move closer. At this distance, the Asset could make out the icy blue of his eyes, bright against the dark slash of his lashes. The dark strands of his hair had come free from the neat tie at the base of his neck and the Asset felt his system malfunction again with the urge to tuck them safely behind his ear. 

Another sound from above him--a bullet sliding into a chamber--had the Asset moving forward with every ounce of speed he possessed. He ducked his shoulder low and hit the other man hard enough that he felt the air rush out of his lungs on a choked gasp. He drove him backwards with the momentum until a brick wall slowed his assault. 

Behind them, a single shot slammed into the concrete where Bucky had been standing.

Whatever time he’d stolen was gone now. Hydra expected results, results the Asset had been trained to ensure. His fist slammed into the bullet wound at the joint of Bucky’s shoulder and ignored the pained gasp the move created. 

For the first time, Bucky fought back with the same cold-blooded efficiency the Asset possessed. He brought a knee up between them and nearly threw the Asset off him, but didn’t expect the larger man to take the hit so he could land a punch that snapped Bucky’s head back in a spray of blood. He slid to the ground in a boneless heap.

The Asset stepped back, ignoring the way the soldier’s hands still clutched at him even in unconsciousness. He stared down at the man until his chest rose and fell in a comforting rhythm before he turned away. It was surprisingly difficult to take the first step away, but he shoved the pain away with the ease of practice. Pain was an old friend now.

The Falcon groaned feebly nearby, but the Asset didn’t spare him more than a glance. His focus moved upwards to where he knew Dolohov would be watching for any sign of rebellion or another escape attempt. He had a feeling that tonight’s interaction would cost him more than the usual pound of flesh.

Silently, the Asset moved away from the bleeding strangers who’d looked at him like he was a friend and began the long walk back into his cage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve has returned in a spray of blood and angst, as is his nature. Hopefully you enjoyed the brief reunion. :) I'd love to hear from you in the comments! 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	8. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome Angsty Children...let's begin.

“Cavitts is dead.”

Bucky barely glanced up from where he was rereading the faded ink of a letter from home that he already had memorized and grunted. 

“Bloody idiot knew better than to stick his head out of a fox hole like that,” Dugan continued with a sigh and a shake of his head, “Stupid kid.”

“Maybe he did it on purpose,” Mott pitched in and Bucky kicked him in the side from where he was leaned against the dirt wall of their shelter for his trouble.

“Don’t speak ill of the dead,” he growled and Mott glowered at him. Ever since Bucky had qualified as an officer back at basic, Mott had been a foul-tempered son of a bitch. Being trapped in a foxhole in sunny Azzano together for the better part of two weeks hadn’t helped anything. “Ain’t nobody want to get shot through the chest and bleed out this far from home.”

Not that poor Cavitts would be the first to go off his rocker in the foxholes. The doctors liked to say it was ‘battle fatigue’ that made men’s eyes go blank for hours at a time or to run headlong into the rows of barbed wire in front of the Krauts’ front line screaming for their mothers. As gruesome as such scenes were, he preferred that to the way Warrick had just laughed and laughed and laughed for hours before the doctors finally carted him away. They claimed it was for treatment, but he knew it was mostly to keep the man from giving away their position.

Bucky wished they’d just put a bullet in his brain to put poor Warrick out of his misery.

Dugan handed Bucky an unlit cigarette and gestured to the letter Bucky kept carefully away from the match he pulled out to light up. “New letter?” he asked.

Bucky shook his head, inhaling the sharp smoke and letting it settle in his lungs. Christ, it was gonna be hard to give these up when he got back home. It wouldn’t do to send Stevie into a heaving asthma attack any time he came close. “Nah,” he sighed, “no post with the fuckin’ Nazis breathing down our necks.”

“No post is worse than the damned morters all day and night. My girl is supposed to be sending me a care package.” Dugan settled down in the dirt beside him, hands cradling his rifle instinctively.

Bucky snickered, “You mean you haven’t scared her off with all that god awful poetry you keep sending her?”

“Quiet, you,” Dugan snapped and gave him a shove that nearly sent him into the dirt, “you won’t even talk about your girl and give us something new to think about.”

“I’m not giving you more material for your damn blue bible, Dum Dum.”

Here on the frontlines, there were few things the soldiers liked to talk about more than the ones they’d left behind. Friends, families, and lovers were all precious commodities in the effort to pass the time sitting behind enemy lines or on the long, cold nights after a firefight. Every soldier had their own fantasy for their homecoming--Bucky just wanted to survive long enough to make sure Steve and his family were okay.

“Come on, Sarge,” Gabe whined from a few feet away, eyes looking a little bloodshot in the evening light. “We have to watch you reading all your precious letters and you never give us any details.”

Bucky glanced back down at the worn paper in his hand, smoothing the wrinkles left behind when he’d pressed it instinctively to his chest when Dugan moved closer. The carefully written description of life back in Brooklyn, back in their apartment was as familiar as the scent of gunpowder and smoke. He didn’t like to think about how hard it was to remember the details of his life before the war.

Brooklyn was safe and Bucky hadn’t felt safe in so damn long.

He didn’t want Steve or Becca or his Ma to be here among the dead and dying boys of the western front. He preferred to think about as they had been before the world went mad: Becca with her long braid and gap toothed grin, trying to convince him to let her tag along in his adventures while Steve, bright and beautifully happy, laughed at her antics. Safe and happy and well fed thanks to the money he sent home with each of his army paychecks. 

They didn’t belong on the frontlines of Azzano. 

“It’s just from Steve,” he said, realizing he paused a moment too long trying to think about how to describe what Steve was to him. “My best friend.”

“Oh yeah?” Mott sneered, “He a draft dodger? Or one of those fairy--”

Bucky’s fist crashed into his jaw faster than he could finish the sentence and sent him smashing into the muddy ground in a tumble of limbs. Dugan and Gabe’s sounds of alarm were drowned out by a terrible fury that descended like white noise through his brain. Methodically, he put every dirty trick and vicious attack he’d learned fighting for cigarettes at camp into beating Mott into a bloody pulp.

The other man threw up his hands in a feeble defense and managed to clip Bucky in a glancing blow near his eye. He barely noticed. His mind had gone into that mechanical place where he only focused on how each of his movements could bring the maximum amount of pain. 

_You’re scary sometimes, Buck,_ Steve had once murmured after a brawl in the alley behind the grocery. _You go cold when you fight._

I know, Stevie. I know.

He barely noticed when the earth shook beneath his feet. Some part of his mind must have noticed the new panic in Gabe’s voice because he was able to finally look up from Mott’s bloodied face to see the pale faces of his unit reaching for their weapons. 

Instantly he was on his feet and moving towards his own rifle, letting the familiar weight center him. “Sitrep?”

“Something fuckin’ huge is coming this way,” Dum Dum grunted, all traces of humor gone as he leaned high enough over the lip of the foxhole to sight his scope.

“Any word from the higher ups?”

“Nope,” Dugan sounded bored as he sighted his gun on the far off ridgeline where the incoming attack would appear. 

Bucky made a derisive sound and checked his own rifle chamber to check for mud or anything that would cause a jam. One day, he’d feel bad about how good it felt to have a gun in his hands. Today he wouldn’t put it down until his unit was safe and their enemies were in the ground.

“Here,” Gabe pressed something into his hand and Bucky looked down to find Steve’s letter. “You dropped this.”

Gratitude rushed through him, hot and wild, and he smiled at the other man. “Thank you.”

Gabe nodded and the three of them settled in to the side of the dugout to watch the first lines of infantry move closer to the noise of incoming tanks. The area was meant to be clear of any large war machines, but their intel was shitty at best pinned down like they were.

“Air support?” he asked.

The other man shook his head grimly. “Looks like it’s the 107th against the world again.”

Mott gave a miserable sounding groan at their feet and Dugan gave him a nudge with one foot. “On your feet, Private. It’s time to kill things.”

For a moment, that awful rumbling went quiet as the first line of monstrous tanks crested the ridge. They moved closer to the lip of their shelter, cursing under their breath at the size of them. Whatever these machines were, they were easily twice the size of the largest tanks seen in this war. Trust their luck that the Nazi’s would trot some new nightmare right on top of their location. 

Bucky tightened his grip on his gun, sensing the familiar presence of death lingering in their shadows.

Then the world was swallowed up by an unearthly blue light.

__________________________________________

 

Bucky opened his eyes to the familiar white walls and strong scent of antiseptic that marked it as a hospital. 

Instantly the protocol ingrained in his bones, blood, and tears slammed into him and the panicked white noise keening in his mind was replaced with violent assessment. He closed his eyes and made certain that the heart rate cheerfully beeping on the monitor nearby remained steady. His breath evened out into the pattern of easy sleep. 

The longer his captors thought he was unconscious, the easier it would be to acquire a weapon.

Two combatants. One safely behind a metal barrier, breathing steady enough to indicate they did not anticipate any attack. The humming beneath the asset indicated they were motion of some sort and the size of the room left him concluding he was inside an airship. The pilot must be the combatant in the other room.

One standing over him to adjust the cannula in his nose. He could smell the familiar iron of blood on their clothing which indicated a recent fight. Good. An injury would slow his enemy down and give him the necessary time to remove himself from the medbay and take out the pilot. 

He shifted minutely and felt his shoulder react with a bolt of dull agony that momentary blanked his mind. 

And, like a twisted phoenix, Bucky was reborn in that pain. 

He sat up with a gasp and startled Sam away from where he was examining the monitors built into the medical berth. “Sam,” he said, hands bracing against the raised edge of the bed, “Where’s Steve?”

“Easy, Bucky,” Sam soothed and Bucky tried not to think about the instinctive alarm in the other man’s expression at the sight of his panicked expression. There was a dark bruise staining the Falcon’s right cheekbone and one of his eyes had gone bloodshot with broken capillaries from the fight. “You were shot.”

“Is Buckaroo finally up?” Tony’s voice was muffled through the doorway a moment before he stepped through and scanned the room. “Looks like Dr. Cho’s device was a good choice.”

“Where. Is. Steve?” Bucky growled.

Both men glanced at each other with a guilty expression that made the knot in Bucky’s stomach tighten.

“I’m sorry, man,” Sam offered, “by the time I was up and moving, he was already gone.”

Bucky yanked at the IV in his hand so he could swing himself out of the bed, ignoring Sam’s squawk of displeasure. “Where are we? Why did you leave the city if Steve is still there?”

“We don’t know where he went after he knocked you and birdbrains out,” Tony said quickly. “Plus you were bleeding out all over the street so we figured it might be a good idea to deal with that first.”

“You didn’t head back to the Tower, did you?” Bucky asked impatiently. 

“No, we’re probably over London by now.”

His arm was still aching with the memory of the first shot, but when he looked down at the wound, he found it mostly healed. He frowned at the red patch of skin wondering how they had healed it so quickly before shaking his head and walking towards the cockpit. It didn’t matter how much blood he shed if it meant getting Steve back.

Tony made a disgruntled noise and chased after him. “Easy there, cyborg. You can’t just turn this thing around -- we don’t know where to even look! Even JARVIS hasn’t found a lead!”

“I’m sorry, sir,” JARVIS’ voice sounded distinctly unhappy with his failure to produce Steve.

“Doesn’t matter,” Bucky grunted, “I know where we can find him.”

Tony gave him a flat stare. “You been holding out on us, Barnes?”

“I planted one of Sam’s trackers on him while we were fighting. If we can get to him before they try to debrief and wipe him, we might get his location.” Bucky’s fingers flexed over the unfamiliar panel of electronics in front of him before shoving a small thumb drive fished out of his pocket into one of the USB jacks. He gave a grunt of approval when a small blinking dot appeared on the navigational array.

“Bucky…” That tone of voice from Sam was enough to make Bucky’s shoulders tense in readiness for the argument he knew was coming. “This could be another one of Hydra’s traps. You said the attack on the helicarrier was meant to recapture you. Maybe they’re trying to lure you in using Steve.”

“I don’t care.” His voice was sharp, but his eyes remained downcast and fixed on the panel in front of him like he could will the machine to move faster. “I can’t just let him go.”

His mind seemed to circle back to the image of the dark figure that had approached him in that alley. Bucky’s memory always seemed to forget that Steve wasn’t the tiny, bird boned spitfire from his childhood and he’d been struck dumb by just how large Steve truly was. He’d cut a menacing figure, face hidden behind the same style of mask Hydra had fitted the Winter Soldier with once upon a time. They’d added a helmet to no doubt hide the iconic blonde of Steve’s hair and ensured that no one would be able to knock it free and identify him. Even the checkered afghani scarf tied around his neck and the black military pants and tac vest were designed to be unnoticeable and untraceable. 

Tony gently nudged him out of the way and pressed a few buttons that had the quinjet putting on more speed and changing directions. “Listen, kid--” And Bucky had to fight back the hysterical laughter in his chest at the thought of Howard Stark’s boy calling him a kid, “--we aren’t saying we won’t help you get Capsicle back. We just want to make sure you aren’t trying to pull a Terminator and sacrifice yourself for him.”

“You don’t understand,” Bucky bit out, “he was _remembering_ us back there. Their programming failed long enough for him to avoid killing us. If it hadn’t, we’d both be in body bags.”

“Well that’s a good thing right?” Sam said, looking a little relieved at the revelation.

Bucky felt nausea curl through his stomach as he slowly shook his head. “They’ll know what he did. They’ll punish him for it.” Tony’s face had gone pale and he noted that way the other man’s hands clenched around the lip of the panel in front of him. “After…,” Bucky swallowed hard, not liking to remember how close he’d come to killing Steve in Hydra’s name, “after I saw Steve on the bridge, I tried to ask about him at the base. I told them I knew him.”

Sam’s voice went soft and deadly. “They hurt you for it?”

“They kept me in the chair until I went into cardiac arrest,” he said flatly, “As soon as I recovered, they started again.”

The cockpit fell silent as the men considered the level of damage necessary to override the healing properties of the super soldier serum. Sam’s expression was one of sudden understanding and Bucky knew he was adding that information to the violent rampage the Winter Soldier had done on the Triskelion.

“I’ll call in the others,” Tony finally said. “But I don’t think any of them will get here within a few hours.”

“Then we move without them.”

Sam looked like he wanted to argue, but one look at Bucky had him throwing his hands up in surrender. 

Tony stepped back and stretched out the tight muscles in his back, trying to relieve the tension from the earlier flight. “I better go call Pepper and give her an update before she finds out I did something stupid through the grapevine.”

After a while, Sam followed him and Bucky let himself settle into the pilot’s chair to watch the screens. He kept his eyes fixed on the glowing red dot as it moved out of Sofia and into the countryside surrounding the capital as though he could force it to continue working through sheer will. If the tracker was found on Steve, it would mean an even harsher punishment and his handlers would probably send him into cryo for the foreseeable future. This would be their only shot.

“Just a little longer, Stevie,” he whispered to the empty room and wondered if he really believed that.

_______________________________________________

It took an hour and six lifetimes to reach the last location of the tracking device. The light had faded after thirty minutes and no one was willing to offer up an explanation as to why that might be. None of them wanted to think about what Hydra might be doing to Steve while they were en route to his location.

Bucky forced himself to step out of the cockpit not long after the tracker died under the pretense of prepping his weapons for the impending fight. His shoulder was still sore from the fight earlier, but whatever science used in the fancy berth Stark had installed seemed to have sped up his healing factor significantly. He rotated it mechanically, ensuring his arm and shoulder wouldn’t slow him down when it mattered.

Unfortunately, his uniform hadn’t fared well in the fight with Steve or the resulting medical care and he was left glaring down at the strips of kevlar that were all that was left of his reinforced shirt. With a annoyed sound, Bucky decided it was a lost cause and tossed it into a nearby trash can. Maybe one of the storage lockers would have a spare for him to use.

He looked up to find Sam watching him thoughtfully. “What?” he asked briskly, not sure if he really wanted to know the answer to his question.

Instead of acknowledging his blustering for what it was, Sam jerked his head in the direction of one of the lockers nearby. “The only replacement they have for you is in there.”

Bucky nodded his thanks and went to the metal storage space and flipped it open. The sight of the familiar blue and white uniform his him like a blow and it was all he could do let out a long slow breath. Gently, he brushed a finger across the stitched white star and tried to ignore the way his eyes were burning.

“I can’t--” His voice broke and he had to clear his throat awkwardly, “--I won’t wear this. It’s Steve’s.”

“Maybe it will help remind him that that’s the truth,” Sam said. “Steve needs to remember Captain America as much as he needs to remember you.”

Bucky stared at the uniform, barely registering when Sam walked away again. He tried not to think about all the times he’d teased Steve about wearing the painfully bright and noticable outfit in the middle of a warzone. Tried not to remember how often he’d found himself distracted from his missions as a Commando with the burning need to seek out the familiar streak of blue on the battlefield.

All he’d ever wanted was for Steve to be safe.

He didn’t need to check the storage locker for the shield he’d brought with him on the quinjet. Some part of him still felt like it was a sacrilege for him to touch the iconic weapon with hands stained by innocent blood. To wear the uniform and the shield felt too much like admitting that Steve might not come back from this.

But if it would bring him back from the madness of Hydra...

Slowly, reverently, he pulled out the blue shirt and trousers and promised himself that the next person to wear it would be Steve.

____________________________________________

Tony landed the jet a few kilometers away from whatever bunker or safe house the tracker had led them to in the inky darkness and quiet of the countryside. Somewhere nearby he could smell the damp scent of sheep pastures and upturned earth. No lights or signs of habitation shown in the space around them and Bucky let some of the tension ease from his shoulders with the knowledge that they wouldn’t have to worry about civilians getting involved.

Sam still looked a little dazed from his earlier concussion, but he still mustered up the energy to glower at Bucky when he told him to hang back with the jet. “Man, fuck you, old man,” he snapped, “Like I’d let you go after Steve without me.”

“You’re a liability if you go in there injured,” Bucky replied, “and you know it.”

“You can’t just run in there guns blazing and think you’re gonna win.”

Bucky smirked at him, resting an AR against one shoulder. “I’m the Winter Soldier, Sam. I’ve been running around ‘guns blazing’ since before you were born.”

“I’m not gonna just sit here twiddling my thumbs while you go risk your life.”

“I’ll be in and out of there in an hour, tops,” Bucky said quickly, “and Tony will watch my six.”

Sam shot Tony an unimpressed stare. “So you agree with this stupid plan?”

“Why am I suddenly the kid who’s parents are getting divorced?” Tony asked with a placating gesture towards Sam, “We’re all adults here--hell, one of us is geriatric--and if you think you’re ready to fight with that concussion, then I won’t stop you.”

Bucky glared at Sam, “Steve needs you to be alive and safe when we get him out of there. You’re the one who is trained to deal with this kind of situation.”

There was a long pause before Sam let out a long breath and Bucky knew he’d won the argument.

“Fine,” he snapped, “but if things look like they’re going to hell quick, I’m dragging your asses out.”

Bucky nodded and watched him stomp back to the cockpit to wait for any communication from the rest of the Avengers. 

“Looks like it’s just me and you then, grandpa,” Tony offered, looking slightly uncomfortable when Bucky swung his attention to him.

“Do you want to know something I never had the guts to tell Steve?” Bucky said abruptly, eyes skittering down towards the red, white and blue of his borrowed uniform. “The only reason Zola started experimenting on POWs was because they found out Erskine and your father succeeded.” His mouth twisted in a mocking smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Knowing what Steve could do on the battlefield had all those damn Nazis shitting themselves for weeks—even after he became some glorified showgirl.”

Tony frowned at him, “Not that I don’t appreciate the trip down memory lane, but what brought this up?”

Bucky took a deep breath and felt the metal plates in his left arm react to the new tension in his body. “Hydra created and conditioned the Winter Soldier because they needed a weapon that would match Captain America’s serum enhancements,” he swallowed hard at the screams that still echoed in his head, “If they’re going to survive a world without being crushed by the Avengers, they need to be able to control one of us...and I won’t let them keep Stevie. He’s the only good thing I’ve ever done in my life and I won’t--I can’t--let them twist him like they did me.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Tony asked softly.

Bucky clenched his jaw and handed over a small remote. He waited until the other man accepted it with a curious expression before he explained, “Because I need you to pull the trigger when Steve is safe.”

“What? Trigger -- trigger for what?”

“Hydra won’t stop hunting us until one of us is dead. I intend to take as many of them out as possible when they bring me in. I installed a--”

“No!” Tony snapped, trying to shove the remote towards Bucky, “Jesus, Bucky! I’m not going to let you become some kind of suicide bomber because you think it’s the only way to save Steve.”

“You’re the only one I can trust to do this, Tony. _Please,_ ” Bucky shoved a hand through his hair, pulling at the short strands, “I know I don’t have any right to ask you for this, but--”

“I’m not killing you! Why would you even ask me to do this? Do you think this is some convoluted revenge scheme?”

Bucky slowly closed Tony’s fingers firmly around the remote and took a step back towards the door. “I’m giving you this because I know that at the end of the day you’ll make sure the better man walks out of that hellhole,” he swallowed hard, “I’m giving you this because I trust you to save him. “

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up next: Bucky and Steve square off as enemies for the first time since the Triskelion.
> 
> Thank you to all of you who left me kudos and comments! This is my first time writing for the MCU and I've been so excited by how supportive you've all been. It's enough to ensure that I've casually started two new Stucky AUs as an outlet for my love of these soft Brooklyn boys. :)


	9. One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry this chapter took so long--me and my muse had to get into a fist fight over how to write a reunion scene. On the plus side, it's a longer than usual chapter with a lot of action. Also, if Captain America: Winter Soldier gave you lots of feels, this chapter will be a wild ride.
> 
> Press on my angsty friends!

There were very few regrets Bucky Barnes could claim to have. 

He considered himself a mostly decent human being and could acknowledge that he had some skills that others did not. He was a good soldier, an even better sniper, and, at the end of the day, there was no danger to him becoming one of those soldiers who were addicted to the blood shed by their hands. 

All he wanted was to do his job, protect his men, and get home in one piece. 

Steve had always been the one with the dreams of glory and battle. He wanted to make the world a better place while Bucky had learned the hard way that such a thing was impossible. He’d watched his friend gobble up every piece of news from the front over and over again every night in their little apartment until the day he shipped out. 

“It’s just not right,” he’d mutter, teeth tugging distractingly at his full bottom lip, “They can’t get away with this.”

It never occurred to Steve Rogers that there were other people in the world to right the wrongs of others. But Bucky had known that for years now. It was something he loved most about his friend.

That was not to say it got any easier to watch Steve’s skin take on the mottled hues of yet another back alley brawl or see the darkness that lingered behind the clear blue sky of his eyes each time he was told his body wouldn’t allow him to help the people who needed it and ‘why don’t you just head on home, son?’ 

Bucky being drafted had only twisted the knife of poor health and tiny stature deeper into the proud, stubborn heart of Steve Rogers. It should have been Steve in the 107th, not Bucky. It was the least Bucky could do to ensure that he served his country well enough to appease his friend’s love of justice. 

But all his talk about not having regrets took a nosedive the instant Bucky looked up in Zola’s lab to watch Steve—sensitive, beautiful, impossible _Steve_ — come to his rescue. 

It was in that moment when he’d realized that the whole time he’d been trapped in the dozens of levels of hell that was warfare, Bucky had only clung to his sanity by assuring himself that Steve would be safe at home. That all his suffering meant that Steve would be safe from any foreign invasion or attack. That no branch of the military worth its salt would look past the glaring 4F and see the true value of the man beneath. 

He should have known that Steve Rogers would find the only other idealist in New York the minute Bucky wasn’t there to drag his reckless ass back to safety.

Maybe it was his fault for wishing some miracle would make Steve healthy for so long. Maybe it was the universe’s sense of humor to give Steve a body that was strong and fierce only to make him run headlong into danger with it. He’d spent his whole life trying to get people to Stevie’s value—just his bad luck that the first time it happened was in the midst of a damn world war. 

What they’d done to Stevie in the name of their precious war effort would be a sin for which Bucky will never be forgiven. He should have known better. He should have been there to keep Steve from seeing the horrors that now hovered behind Bucky’s eyelids and lingered in dreams turned dark and vicious each time he tried to sleep. 

Bucky would _never_ forgive himself for being the reason Steve stepped away from the chorus line and into the line of fire. 

“We need better security on Rogers.”

Colonel Phillips didn’t bother to look up from the list of supplies he was assessing at the sharp statement. “Captain America is his own security. That’s why we keep you around.”

“There’s been two assassination attempts _this week_ , sir,” Bucky snapped, trying and failing to keep his temper under control. “If I hadn’t walked into his tent to drop off some supplies, he would be bleeding out right now.”

“Good thing he has you then.”

“He’s not indestructible, damnit!” Bucky’s voice was loud enough that the pretty blonde secretary wading through her own paperwork flinched. Any other day he would apologize, but not when he was still covered with the blood of a man who wanted to kill his Stevie. He’d barely had time to drag the body out of sight before the rest of the Commandos returned from the mess hall. He couldn’t keep hiding the attacks from Steve--he was too damn observant not to realize that Bucky’s lack of sleep and edginess wasn’t just battle fatigue or some other bullshit left by Azzano.

The colonel finally set his papers down and met Bucky’s eyes with a gimlet expression. “I like you Barnes—you’re a good soldier when you put your mind to it and you keep the good Captain from running off on more hair brained schemes—which is the _only_ reason I put up with all your overprotective bullshit,” he took a breath and took in the blood dripping off Bucky’s uniform onto the wooden slats on the ground, “You and I both know we don’t have the manpower to spare to watch over that giant science experiment. We’ve got Hydra on the run now and it’s no surprise to anyone that Schmidt would send a few assassins our way.”

“But—!”

Bucky’s protests were cut off at the familiar sight of Peggy Carter marching into the room. As usual he felt a petty twist of jealousy when he noticed that she was approaching from the mess hall—where she was flustering Steve within an inch of his life, no doubt—but it faded when he caught the feverish triumph in her expression. 

“We’ve got the bastard!” she crowed and waved the telegraph in her hand to punctuate the sentence. 

Colonel Phillips sighed like he was finally accepting that he wouldn’t be able to get back to his work until he acknowledged the interlopers in his office. “And which bastard would that be, Carter?”

“Zola,” she said and the room seemed to go still at the name. 

Bucky’s heart thudded painfully in his chest and he had to look down and breathe through the exercises Morita had taught him after his night terrors were beginning to affect his ability to function. He counted each frantic beat of his heart just to prove it was still working. He drew in the familiar scent of gunpowder and dirt that he associated with the army camp. Even the mention the mention of the small doctors name was enough to have phantom pains skittering through his body and cold sweat dripping down his spine. His fingers found traction in the hilt of his Bowie knife and he squeezed the scarred leather until his hand went numb. 

“—report has him moving through the mountain pass tomorrow. They must’ve decided we were getting too close and needed to move him before we snatched him up.”

If it were possible, Phillips actually looked pleased at the news. “Without Zola, Schmidt’s technology production will stall. We need to bring him in.”

“Yes sir.” Peggy’s eyes were bright with excitement at the prospect—the perfect counterpoint to Steve’s passionate rants. It was like they were made for each other. Bucky tried to be grateful. “I’ll call in the rest of the Commandos.”

She spun on her heel and practically sprinted away from them, leaving behind a cloud of perfume and dread. Or maybe that was just him.

Bucky took a deep breath and returned his attention to Phillips in time to see a shocking moment of sympathy filtered through the other man’s expression. 

“Go get cleaned up, Soldier,” he said, “After this, you and the rest of the team can have a nice long break while we interrogate Zola. I’ll even pitch for your furlough to be somewhere relatively safe.”

Bucky nodded slowly before forcing himself to turn away and head into the brisk open air of the camp, trying to convince himself that the dread building in his chest was just nerves. All he had to do was survive one more mission and then this nightmare could be over for a time. 

One more mission and they would be safe. 

_____________________________________________

 

There wasn’t enough time to enjoy the fierce pleasure he felt stepping over the bodies of the dead Hydra agents who had the misfortune to be guarding the door to their bunker. Every second he wasted was another where they could dig their claws deeper into Steve. Bucky didn’t even bother to avoid the moves that he knew would end the fight too quickly--just dropped them using every horrible trick he knew. 

The first guard went down with a snapped neck courtesy of the vicious roundhouse kick that applied every ounce of serum enhanced strength he possessed.

The second had enough time to reach for his gun at the sight of his fallen comrade before Bucky’s left arm snagged his wrist easily and crushed the delicate bones with barely an effort. His cry of painful anguish was cut off by a quick jab to the throat, carefully aimed to collapse his windpipe. Bucky snagged the second guard’s gun before it could hit the ground and threw it as hard as he could into the final guard’s temple. The man went down like a ton of bricks onto the concrete.

Bucky made sure he didn’t get up again.

A soft whistle trickled through the tiny earpiece he’d attached before the mission and Sam’s voice came through as easily as if he were standing next to him. “Damn, son. That was brutal.”

Bucky didn’t respond, just grabbed the nearest guard by the back of his uniform and hauled him away from the door. He didn’t want to risk Steve or Tony being tripped up when they made their exit. His leg ached from the earlier attack and his shoulder was still stiff and sore from the healed gunshot wound, but it barely registered in the scheme of injuries he was willing to endure if it meant getting Steve back.

A rush of air warned him that Tony had arrived, but the normally chatty inventor remained silent as he considered the panel discreetly attached to the wall beside the door. He looked tense and unhappy even in the lowlight and took care to avoid looking at Bucky while he worked.

“Open sesame, Friday,” he murmured and the door slid smoothly open a few moments later. Bucky started forward, but Tony abruptly grabbed the sleeve of his uniform. “You don’t have to do this. We can find a way to keep both of you safe.”

Bucky laid his hand on top of his for a brief moment before gently removing it. “You and I both know I was never meant to live this long.”

“Steve will never forgive me for this.”

“Steve doesn’t need to know how we got him out. He just needs to be safe. He deserves to live as more than a weapon for a cause.”

They both knew he wasn’t just talking about Hydra and it only added to the air of morbidity.

Tony sighed through the faceplate of his mask, the audio slightly distorted and Bucky clapped a hand on his shoulder gently before taking up his gun again. “Friday is sending me the blueprints from the security system now.”

“Don’t bother,” Bucky said grimly, “I know where to go. I’ll signal when I have him.”

He left Tony looking alarmed and heartbroken by the entrance and stepped deeper into the darkness.

____________________________________________

 

For the first time since he’d walked away from the Potomac and Steve’s battered body, Bucky didn’t question the images and memories his mind produced.

He moved easily, quickly through the maze of hallways that led into the bowels of the bunker using the fractured memories from his stint as Hydra’s pet assassin. He reached for that awful nothingness that always lingered at the edges of his psyche and let it keep his body ready for attacks. The Winter Soldier was used to working alone against insurmountable odds. The Soldier knew nothing but what it took to complete his mission.

Retrieve Steve Rogers. Use extreme prejudice against all other combatants.

They worked in tandem to clear the first wave of Hydra soldiers and the upper levels of the bunker. Tony’s computer ensured the alarms remained silent, but he couldn’t prevent the attention of agents moving around the base. 

Bucky didn’t bother to be quiet after the first spray of bullets pinged off Steve’s shield--it wouldn’t matter either way. Whoever held Steve needed to know his death was coming. He deserved to taste the same acrid fear and panic that had sunk into every fiber of Bucky’s being since he’d watched Steve disappear. He wanted them to know they were being hunted by a monster.

He turned right at the first intersection and--

When he looked up again, his hands were warm and wet with the familiar stain of blood and he stared at the knife in his hand, startled by its presence.

The sound of blubbering made him look up from the agent he’d just gutted with the jagged edge of his own knife and Bucky spun slowly to face a soldier that looked entirely too young to be a part of this kind of organization. His eyes were wide enough that Bucky could see the ring of white surrounding the brown of his iris as he approached.

Bucky crouched down in front of the boy, glancing down at the bullet wound in his upper thigh that meant he wouldn’t be able to run. The knife he must have used to kill the other three agents threaded through his fingers in a complicated pattern that helped him focus some of his impatience. “You haven’t used your suicide cap,” he observed stoically.

The boy’s eyes flicked from the knife back to Bucky’s face and he swallowed loud enough to be heard in the near-silent corridor.

“I wonder if that makes you very smart or very dumb,” Bucky mused as he scanned the space for any other threats. The camera anchored to the ceiling nearby told him he wouldn’t have long. “Where is the prisoner?”

“I--I don’t know.”

Bucky scowled and felt the plates of his left arm shift in preparation for movements. The slide of the vibranium against the sleeve of the uniform felt jagged and raw. With a jerk, he ripped the fabric away to reveal the length of metal and watched what little color remained in the guard’s face disappear. Good, no introductions would be necessary then.

“You know who I am and you know what I’ll do to you if you don’t give me the answers I need,” Bucky muttered, “So this is your last shot, kid--where are they keeping the prisoner?”

The boy shuddered violently, eyes darting around the hallway for some kind of escape route. “There aren’t any prisoners, I swear!”

 

“Don’t. Lie.”

“I’m not! I’m not! The base is just a holding area for the asset and--”

The agent’s babbling was cut off by Bucky’s hand wrapping around his throat in barely controlled fury, “ _Where is the asset?_ ”

“He’s in the sublevel. I--I’m not sure where.”

Bucky released him with a hiss of barely bottled rage and stood, “You have thirty seconds to get out of the compound and surrender yourself to the rest of the Avengers.”

He didn’t wait to listen to the footsteps hobbling towards the exit, just shouldered one of the fallen guard’s weapons to replace the empty clips he carried. Scanning each room and hallway was second nature, and he left a line of dead and dying men in his wake like bread crumbs leading back to the exit. The shield at his back shifted with each movement like a silent promise. 

_I’m going to save him_ , he swore to the empty corridors and the symbol of freedom on his back. _I’m going to keep him safe._

Like flashes of painful light, memories of being dragged down the same hallways overlapped with the present. They were far easier to accept that the memory of walking willingly toward the cell he knew awaited him. Better the cell than the chair. He wasn’t sure if the chair was worse that slipping into burning cold of cryo. His head throbbed painfully with each step he took and Bucky tried not to think about how often he seemed to go blank for stretches of time.

He ignored the part of him that wanted to run, the part of him that wanted to find some way to walk back into the sunlight with Steve at his side. He knew better than to believe this would be over once he destroyed this base. There were always more soldiers willing to die for Hydra’s wars.

Instead of fighting the death awaiting them, the Soldier and Bucky found themselves facing a rare moment of peace. Steve was their mission. They would not fail to retrieve him.

It was enough to keep his heartbeat steady as he stepped into the steel elevator and watched the doors close around him. He reached for the mic on his collar, “Send me to the sublevel, Stark.”

The electronic pad set in the wall gave a cheerful beep and the elevator rattled to life.

“They’ll be waiting for you down there,” Tony’s voice was grim, “I kept the camera feeds blank, but they have to know something’s going on by now.”

Bucky shrugged, taking the opportunity to slide in a fresh magazine into his gun and check that his gear was in place. “I expected as much. Make sure you’re ready to hold Steve--he may not go willingly.”

“I’ve got my Hulkbuster gear on standby. That will keep him contained until we’re back in New York.”

He smiled at the elevator door in front of him, marveling once again at the strangeness of working with Howard’s son. It was a greater gift than he deserved. 

“Thanks Tony.” His voice was rough with emotion and he felt the other man pause over the comms. 

Before he could hear the response, the doors to the elevator opened and he was staring into a scene stripped straight from his nightmares. 

Across from him was a large open room that still bore the scars hinting at a more sinister purpose. Manacles hung open and unused next to a stained drain on the tile floor, glinting in the pale fluorescent lighting overhead. Metal instruments waited to carve out secrets and pain on the table nearby. To the right was one of the sensory deprivation tanks that Bucky remembered with a cold shudder from one of the many punishments he’d faced when he was held here. A dozen guns shifted to point at the center of his chest courtesy of the last of the Hydra agents.

All of these details were nothing compared to the agony that was seeing Steve on his knees before Lukin.

Steve’s eyes were wild and feverish on his and Bucky felt the air punch out of his chest in a ragged sound at the sight. None of the bright blue that had anchored him in the war or laughed at him each time he’d come home drunk and wanting to dance in the cramped kitchen. Instead, his pupils were blown so badly that only a sliver of color remained.

Steve’s are blue, not black, a tiny, frightened voice in his head whispered. 

He looked wretched and foreign in the halogen glare of the lighting in the chamber. Steve belonged in the sunshine skies and gritty concrete of Brooklyn--not trapped far away from his friends and loved ones. Dark circles ringed his eyes and his jawline was hidden beneath a thick beard that Steve had never bothered to grow out before. His hair had grown out of its normal army-regulation style and hung around his gaunt face in sweat dampened strands.

Lukin shifted and Bucky tightened his hold on his gun, forcing himself to focus on one of Hydra’s last generals. He brought it up so the tiny red laser rested between his eyes and ignored the way the other soldiers shifted anxiously. He only had eyes for the son of a bitch that hurt his Stevie.

“I wondered how long it would take for you to come crawling back home,” Lukin said with a smirk that made nausea twist in Bucky’s gut. “I should never have let Pierce borrow you for his foolish schemes.”

The reminder of what he’d been for this man--of what he’d done for him--made Bucky’s hands tremble. He glanced at Steve once before he found his voice again, “Let him go.”

“Are you jealous, soldat?” Lukin asked, tilting his head curiously. “Did you expect your betrayal to come without consequences?”

“I never belonged to you and neither does he.”

Lukin tsked, as comfortable as if they were discussing the actions of some wayward pet. He reached down to run his fingers through the tousled blonde strands of hair now freed from the mask and helmet that disguised Steve’s features. Steve closed his eyes at the touch, his expression a confusing mixture of tension and bliss. 

Bucky gritted his teeth until his jaw ached. “ _Don’t touch him!_ ”

“He is mine,” Lukin snapped, eyes cold on Bucky’s trembling figure, “as is every weapon in my army. As are you, soldat. Failing your mission and betraying our cause does not mean you are free.”

“I don’t belong to you,” he repeated, more for himself than for the man who’d attempted to strip his humanity away. “I never wanted to kill for you.”

“And yet your hands are stained with the blood of hundreds,” Lukin said, “Did you honestly believe that your new friends would ever forgive you for that? Did you honestly believe you deserved their loyalty?”

Bucky remained silent. Eyes fixed on Steve like a lodestone. 

His fingers trembled on the trigger of his weapon, but he forced himself to stay still. His breath was ragged and too loud in the quiet room. If he killed Lukin, the rest of his men would open fire and Steve would be caught in the crossfire. He couldn't use the explosive he'd so carefully hidden in the plates of his arm without destroying Steve in the process, leaving him outnumbered and alone in this nightmare. The tension in his body felt like it was vibrating through his skin and shivering through his bones.

Lukin chuckled darkly, tightening his hold on Steve until the blonde winced and was forced to tilt his head back to expose his throat. “All you’ve ever been good for is killing men worth more than your own. It should be no surprise that you finally managed to drag your dear Captain America down with you.”

Bucky swallowed hard, trying not to think about what kind of drugs they must have pumped through Steve’s body to keep him so pliant, so blank. “Give him back to me,” he said instead. “He isn’t a part of this.”

“You made him a part of this the moment you abandoned your mission and tried to pretend like you were a person.” Lukin tightened his hold on the blonde’s hair until he winced and let out a soft noise of pain, “My dear Nomad was created to fill the hole you left behind in our organization. He is the new shield of Hydra.”

His left arm shifted and recalibrated in reaction to the spike of adrenaline and pain those words created and Bucky let his eyes scan the room and the soldiers within it. The gun in his hand felt like it was made of whispering stone, laughing at his weakness and weighing down his arms until his muscles shook. His thoughts felt like they were darting back and forth between past and present, leaving him dizzy and sick to his stomach. 

He blinked and Lukin was smiling faintly next to Steve who was suddenly standing beside him and Bucky flinched hard, instinctively stepping closer to the elevator at his back. The soldiers surrounding him shifted forward eagerly, sensing the violence brewing in the air.

“You’ve been out of the chair for too long, soldat,” Lukin crooned, “You’re confused. Put down your gun and we will take care of you.”

“N-no,” Bucky said, eyes wide and wild on the other soldiers in the room, “No, I won’t go back.”

“Bucky,” Stark’s voice in his ear made him flinch, “Bucky, you need to get Steve to the elevator. Friday is keeping the doors open until you step through.”

Steve’s head tilted in response to the tinny voice coming through the mic, eyes fixed somewhere over Bucky’s shoulder.

He shifted slightly in response, trying to think of some way to get Steve to come close enough to push him through the silver doors at his back. Stark’s words gave him something to focus on past the panic attack that was threatening to drag him back under. Thinking quickly, he tapped one metal finger against the barrel of his rifle in a careful pattern and prayed that Stark would understand what he was trying to say.

Thankfully, he wasn’t considered a genius for nothing and it didn’t take more than two repeating patterns before Stark’s voice came through Bucky’s headset, “Good call, Robocop. Countdown to party time in three...two... _one_.”

At one, Bucky dropped like a ton of bricks to the floor as the lights in the room abruptly cut out, plunging the room into darkness. Bullets sparked and struck into the concrete and walls around him, but he kept rolling away from the place he’d been. From his stomach, he opened fire on the soldiers that were still in a semicircle around him and listened to the familiar sounds of pain and confusion.

“Nomad, kill him!” Lukin’s voice cut through the chaos like a knife, and his agents didn’t bother to stop firing. There was no need to worry about killing a super soldier when they were little more than a breathing weapon. 

A foot came down next to Bucky’s head and he twisted to fire a shot up at the unlucky soldier who collapsed in a heap next to him. There were fewer gunshots going off now and he used the muzzle flares to finish off the last before rolling to his feet. “Lights, Tony,” he ordered and the room was immediately bathed in pale light.

Before his eyes could begin to adjust, something massive slammed into his torso and he was thrown back onto the concrete hard enough for him to feel his breath slam out of his chest. His gun was batted away before he could bring it up to fire at his attacker. Bucky threw up it left arm in time to dodge a punch that felt strong enough to break his jaw and stared up at a pair of narrowed blue eyes.

“S-steve,” he gasped, his voice sounding raw and weak against the violence all around them. “Steve, it’s me. It’s Bucky.”

No recognition filtered over the face Bucky knew better than his own. The blankness in Steve’s eyes felt foreign and unnatural. 

But not as unfamiliar as the quick bunching of broad muscles against him as Steve slammed his free hand into Bucky’s solar plexus. 

He wheezed painfully, bucking his body up under Steve’s in an effort to unseat him and get enough room to twist free. Steve rode out the gesture easily, raining down two more blows that were hard enough to make dark spots dance around his vision and the coppery taste of blood flood his mouth. Panic at the thought of what would happen to his friend if Bucky failed to get him to Stark was all that kept him from slipping in to comforting numbness. Instead, he channeled all his panic and adrenaline into a move that Natasha had perfected and torqued his body painfully but finally allowed himself to roll out from under Steve.

Bucky kept backing away from Steve to give himself the space to think through his next move and how the fuck he was supposed to get Steve into the elevator.

 _Please don’t make me do this, Bucky._ Steve’s voice on the helicarrier was a mocking memory in the face of a man hell-bent on ripping Bucky to shreds.

Steve crouched like some beast drawn out of Bucky’s darkest nightmares and pointed the gun he’d stolen from Bucky at the former assassin. Bucky barely managed to get the shield still strapped to his back up in time to avoid the spray of metal. One bit into the muscle of his thigh and Bucky let loose a curse that would’ve gotten his mouth washed out with soap if his mother was still around. Christ, how did Steve still have working legs with such a tiny fucking shield to protect him?

“That’s enough, Nomad,” Lukin said and the gunshots immediately ceased, “We need to have enough left of him to put into the chair.”

Bucky tried to imagine going back to the blank spaces in his mind interspersed with moments of painful clarity when he realized just what kind of a monster he had become. But this time he wouldn’t be alone. He would watch as everything good and kind about Steve was burned and twisted into a scarred nightmare until there was nothing left of the man Bucky...loved.

It was a description of his feelings that Bucky had been so careful to avoid in the months since Steve disappeared. He tried not to think about the way the blonde had stared at him in the helicarrier. Tried not to think about the last words he’d whispered in the moments before Bucky fell to the earth. Love felt like too light a word to describe the desperate craving he felt to keep Steve safe and happy and cherished. It was too vapid a term for the emotion that formed the foundation of everything good Bucky had ever done.

So, Bucky grabbed the shield in the grip he’d watched Steve perfect under Peggy Carter’s watchful eyes and slung it with all of his might into Lukin.

It connected with a sickening crunch that Bucky didn’t get to savor before Steve was firing at him again. He felt two land high on his right arm and shoulder before he sprinted toward the elevator doors still hanging open. Bucky caught a glimpse of the shield ricocheting off the back wall and Steve reaching one hand up almost lazily to snag it midair before he focused on making his escape. 

Hard footsteps pounded into the ground behind him and Bucky felt the first stirrings of hope in his heart at the thought that maybe they would make it out alive. Steve had taken up his shield. Lukin was dead. All they had to do was get to ground level and Sam and Tony could make sure he got back.

His body was throbbing angrily, reminding him of each injury. He threw himself into the elevator and took in the sight of Steve racing toward him with predatory intent and realized he was about to be trapped in a metal box with a violent supersoldier.

“Close the damn doors Stark!” he shouted into the comms and heard the other man give a panicked yelp.

The elevator lurched and he watched Steve disappear between the metal halves of the door with a pounding heart. There was a jarring bang and Bucky stared at the fist-sized dent in the door as the elevator moved upward. He panted raggedly, listening to the sounds of the machinery around him for the sounds of pursuit.

“I thought the goal was to get Steve _out_ of the bunker,” Stark said.

“This will only slow him down. Steve’s too damn stubborn to be stopped by a missed elevator.”

Sure enough he felt the elevator car lurch as something large pulled itself onto the undercarriage. He cursed and glanced at the numbers on the ceiling, “Get Friday to open the doors on the next floor. You and Sam stay out of the bunker--he may attack you too.”

They both knew what hurting a friend would do to Steve if-- _when_ he regained his memories. 

“Get him out in the open and I’ll activate the Hulk Buster containment unit, Barnes. Then you get your ass out of there.”

Bucky didn’t bother to respond as the doors opened and he sprinted down the hallway towards the exit. Blood dripped down his leg and arm, leaving a bright red trail that he knew Steve would follow. He just had to make sure he got to the exit before Steve got to him. 

A crash behind him forced him to will his legs into greater speeds. Steve sounded like a some great beast hunting him through the shadowed hallways of the bunker and Bucky felt his heart lurch in instinctive panic. Even as the Winter Soldier, he’d never feared that Steve would kill him--even mindless and lost, he knew Steve would never hurt him.

But it wasn’t Steve who’d shot and attacked him in the sublevels and it wasn’t Steve who chased him now.

Bucky skidded around a corner and cursed when he was faced with a long open corridor without even a doorway to seek cover behind. Sprinting forward, he forced his tired, flagging body into motion and tried to console himself with the knowledge that he was only a few turns away from the exit. 

Something cut through the air behind him and he turned slightly. It was all that saved him from the shield thrown by Steve’s capable hands. The blow meant for the back of his skull landed on his wounded shoulder instead and Bucky fell to his knees painfully as his vision threatened to white out. The shield skittered across the ground until it came to a halt next to the doorway at the end of the hall.

Heavy footsteps behind him seemed to echo oddly against the roaring of his blood in his ears and Bucky leaned heavily against the wall. His left arm spasmed and shredded through the layers of drywall as he forced himself back to his feet again and lurched forward. 

His vision wobbled dangerously and his right arm hung limply at his side, flopping uselessly beside his empty gun holster. Bucky had a feeling that his left arm would be useless too if it weren’t for the bionic arm. His breathing was erratic and Bucky had enough experience to know the fact he couldn’t feel the pain from his injuries anymore wasn’t a good sign. At this rate, Steve wouldn’t have to bring Bucky down before he collapsed from blood loss.

Ahead of him, the exit of the bunker hung open in a mocking outline of early morning light. 

He took another step forward before a vicious kick to his spine sent him flying. Hissing out a breath, Bucky tried to roll to alleviate some of his momentum, but only managed an awkward flop. Using his left arm, he tried to push himself up off the floor to continue his dogged progress towards freedom.

“You’re such a pain in my ass, Stevie,” he muttered. “You never did like to walk away from a fight.”

Steve’s fist connected with his kidney and he choked, falling against the wall heavily. He managed to block the next move with his left arm before Steve swept his feet out from under him and he was left staring up at the white ceiling.

Feebly, Bucky tried to get back to his feet, but Steve straddled his stomach in an easy move that left him defenseless against the left hook that felt like it broke his cheekbone. Blood dripped from his broken nose and down the back of his throat until his stomach lurched. “Shoulda...never taught you how to punch,” he said through bloody teeth.

Steve stared at him without any life behind his eyes and Bucky felt his chest ache at the sight. His arm hung in the air above Bucky like he’d forgotten what he was doing mid-movement. “Come on, pal. You _know_ me. Stevie, I’m your best friend.”

Bucky was so focused on pouring every ounce of honesty he possessed into his voice that he was blindsided by the next punch. Steve’s face was twisted in fury above him as he slammed into him over and over again. “Stop calling me that!”

“Please, Steve! You have to remember who you are,” Bucky gasped weakly, “Come back to me.”

“ _I don’t know you!_ ” Steve hissed, grabbing Bucky by the front of his borrowed uniform and dragging him up so he could snarl at him, “You’re my enemy!”

“You know me, Steve. You always have,” he said doggedly, “You gave up everything to save me from Hydra...now it’s my turn to save you.”

Something flickered oddly in Steve’s expression and he released Bucky abruptly, letting him collapse back on the hard floor. Bucky’s head felt like it was packed with cotton and he found himself staring blearily up at the blonde. Even covered in blood and an unfamiliar uniform, Steve was beautiful. The aching hole in his chest that had been his only companion for months felt like it was fading away with each rise and fall of the broad chest above him. Steve was safe. He’d come in time to save him.

“You and me, punk,” His voice was slurring and hard to understand with his swollen job, but he couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out, “You’re it for me. Never gonna be anyone else...knew it since we were kids.”

Steve shook his head roughly, like he was trying to block Bucky out. 

Bucky swallowed hard, trying to get the words out before the darkness at the edge of his vision consumed him, “I’m with you and you’re with me...til the end of the line.”

The roaring in his ears grew louder and he blinked slowly, giving in to the exhaustion in his bones. He felt dizzy and sick as Steve shifted again above him. Slowly, he let the tension in his body from the fight seep out of him until he was limp on the floor. If he had to die, it should be Steve who ended him. He wouldn’t try to stop him.

His breath sounded wet and ragged in the empty hallway and he could feel himself drifting away. Loud voices filled the corridor and he felt Steve shift anxiously with the need to defend against the unknown. Bucky’s voice was weak and slurring as he grabbed feebly at Steve’s arm, “Don’ hurt him...please.”

“ _Bucky_ ,” a horrified voice whispered, but Bucky was already gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this version of violent Steve and soft Bucky. Next chapter will be a little fluffier and (hopefully) be the last chapter of the story. Very excited for this conclusion.
> 
> Let me know what you think in the comments! They give me life!


	10. Freight Car

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thousand apologies and a million excuses wouldn't make the amount of time it took me to write out the final chapter acceptable. Regardless, I am terribly sorry that it's been a month since my last update. Hopefully it was worth the wait. :)

If Bucky closed his eyes and ignored the scent of pine and overtired soldiers, he could pretend he was standing on a simple subway platform waiting for the train he knew was coming. He could pretend that the wind tugging and slicing through the layers of protective clothing he wore was tinged by the familiar scents of home. If he just kept his eyes closed, he wouldn’t have to stare at the thin rope that was all that would keep them from falling into the hungry chasm below.

He shivered at the thought.

Like the gesture summoned him, Steve shifted away from where he was discussing last minute strategy with Gabe and moved to stand closer to Bucky. Bucky focused on not rolling his eyes at the not-so-subtle overprotectiveness. Ever since Azzano, Steve seemed to be trying to prove that one of the side effects of the serum was the urge to follow Bucky everywhere like a massive blonde shadow. He didn’t like the way Steve looked like he was expecting Bucky to fall apart at any moment.

Mostly Bucky just didn’t like to acknowledge how often he felt like he _was_ falling apart.

Still, he’d rather bite off his own tongue than admit he was struggling to accept the new direction the world seemed to be turning, so he summoned up the same humor the old Bucky used like a weapon. 

“You remember when I made you ride the Cyclone at Coney Island?” he asked with the crooked smirk that had teased Mary Johnson right out of her dress the month before he shipped out. Reminiscing about Brooklyn was a hell of a lot better than the thinking about the sort of insanity they were about to attempt.

Steve gave him a flat look that meant he knew what Bucky was trying to do. “Yeah and I threw up.”

Bucky looked out at the gap and felt his stomach lurch. He swallowed hard and licked his lips before he looked back at Steve. “This isn’t payback is it?”

“Now why would I do that?”

Steve’s slow smile sent a curl of warmth through the pit of his stomach--yet another strange new development to ponder late at night with Steve snoring beside him--before he turned back to the others to make a joke about timing the jump right.

With the ease of long practice, Bucky shoved away the urge to watch the play of muscles in Steve’s back that were highlighted by the tight (and ridiculous) uniform he wore. Instead, he let his mind shift back to the cool, quiet exhilaration that always proceeded a fight. He didn’t need to be the scared kid who wanted to take Stevie and run for home. He wasn’t that boy anymore.

Sergeant James Barnes ran his hands over the familiar barrel of his rifle before he slung it over his shoulder with a firm jerk to confirm it would be stable on the ride to the train. He eyed the plume of smoke that heralded the approach of the train and watched Steve take the deep breath that always seemed to transform him from Steve Rogers to Captain America. They both seemed to wear masks now. He wondered if they would recognize themselves when they took them off again.

He thought about Phillips’ promise that they would be able to rest after they caught Zola and tried to remember when he’d stopped believing the officers that moved them from battle to battle like chess pieces. The only people he believed anymore were gathered in the clearing around him, waiting to see if another one of Steve’s crazy schemes would work.

Dugan clapped Bucky on the shoulder in silent camaraderie as he stepped up to the rope behind Steve. There was no hesitation in the stubborn set of the blonde’s shoulders and Bucky could imagine his face was set in the same expression that had earned him more than one bloodied nose in some back alley. Those shoulders expanded on one deep breath and then they were off, dangling above certain death and hurtling towards something worse.

The train was slick and icy enough that he felt his boots skid for a heartstopping moment before he stabilized. He glanced back to confirm Gabe was safely aboard before following Steve through the gaps in the freight cars to the doorway below. He kept his rifle moving in the slow pattern he’d learned and perfected in the centuries he’d been at war to clear each compartment before Steve got his fool-head shot off by some lucky Hydra goon.

He expected to see train cars filled with the kinds of idiots that chose to join a death cult and face down a genuine supersoldier. Instead, they were full of crates hiding the bright blue energy signal and various materials meant for Zola’s next round of experiments. Steve moved through the containers with easy confidence, keeping the handgun Bucky insisted he carry ready at his side. His friend glanced back once with an inquiring brow and Bucky nodded at his silent question to work their way forward without waiting for Gabe.

Bucky paused at a sound behind him as they began to move towards the front of the train, frowning at the empty corridor. The silence inside the train was beginning to ache like a bruise and he almost wished they were being shot at just to get it over with. He swept the room one last time before he turned back to continue.

When he went to step into the next car with Steve, he watched the reinforced metal door slide close with all the finality of a tomb. 

Steve spun, eyes wide and startled but it was already too late. Bucky caught a flash of movement behind the other man before he was forced to focus on the soldiers bearing down on him. The narrow confines of the car meant there was little cover and Bucky found himself barely dodging the hot sparks from the first string of bullets aimed for his head.

He hunched down behind a crate and tried to count the shots left in his assailants’ clips but his eyes kept moving back to the sounds of violence on the other side of the metal door. The room was too small, too packed and he felt the first stirrings of panic in his gut. If he died here, who would take care of his unit? Who would take care of Steve? 

So, Bucky took a steadying breath and leaned out to fire two shots at the man on the right before he was forced to slam back against the wall to avoid the shots sparking against the metal nearby. Adrenaline and the roar of the train made it hard to think, hard to focus enough to locate where his enemies were in time to find Steve. The realization that he might die here, alone, was a familiar one after months on the front lines.

He steadied himself for one more push and looked up in time to see Steve’s anxious eyes meet his through the glass panel of the car door. They stared at each other for a beat, communicating without words with the ease of long friendship cemented by countless uphill battles. It was a skill honed by their time together with the Commandos, deeper than any bond between soldiers could ever hope to be.

With a final, confirming nod, they moved in tandem. Steve shoved the metal piping into the the soldier on the right while Bucky pivoted in an easy movement and fired. It was natural now to anticipate the rough kick of the gunshot, to track the minute movements that would mean the difference between hit or miss, life or death.

What _was_ getting harder was hiding the guilt from those brief moments away behind the casual smiles Steve expected from him.

So he swallowed down the bile and breathed through the pounding adrenaline still lingering in his veins. “I had him on the ropes.”

“I know you did.” Steve grinned at him, relieved and happy and--

The world went bright and violent in a rush of heat and tearing metal. Steve cried out in pain that made something jerk to life in Bucky’s chest. Ignoring the way his body was screaming at him to stay still and lay down, he shook his head slowly in an attempt to dull the ringing in his ears. Stiffly, he rolled to his feet, his boot kicking against the familiar round edge of the shield.

Picking up the shield was stupid. He knew he wouldn’t be strong enough to withhold another from the soldier, but the alternative was to leave Steve weaponless and outgunned in a space too small to hide in. The shield felt awkward and unwieldy in his hands, like it sensed that he wasn’t its’ true owner. He angled it up in a mockery of the pose Steve made look so easy and raised his gun to point at the last metal-clad soldier on the train. A war cry worthy of the Howling Commandos snarled to life at his lips and was cut off as they both fired and connected with their targets.

The shield absorbed some of the blow--probably enough to save his life--but it wasn’t enough to salvage the side of the train car as it tore open under the pressure. 

Icy winds ripped and tore at him as some primitive part of his brain locked the muscles needed to keep clinging like a limpet to the side of the train. The cold contrasted violently with the hot lick of panic in his bones. He shifted his grip, trying to find the strength he needed to pull himself onto something more stable. Steve was still alone against that awful weapon and he couldn’t hear the sounds of the fight over the roar of the train as it hurtled above the chasm.

Then he was looking into wide blue eyes, leaning out from the main compartment. For a moment it was all he could do to keep from letting his body go limp with relief.

“Bucky!” Steve shouted over the roar of the ice and snow, “Grab my hand!”

He leaned out on the thin metal rail like he could somehow stretch across the distance through sheer will. His jaw was tilted in the same stubborn angle that always warned Bucky that he was about to something stupid and reckless.

Instinctively, Bucky shifted closer and reached out his right hand in a futile attempt to grab the hand just out of reach. His fingers were numb with cold now and he could feel his muscles trembling with the effort to hold onto to the only thing keeping him alive now.

Steve made a soft sound of panic and Bucky stared back at him with a moment of perfect understanding. He could see the muscles in his newly broad shoulders bunching with effort as he moved farther and farther away from the safety of the train. His eyes remained fixed on Bucky like he was a lodestone. 

And he knew, _he knew_ , that Steve would let himself fall for the chance to save him.

But Bucky was selfish, scared. He didn’t want to fall with Steve laying just out of reach. He wanted to stay, to make sure the only thing good and pure in his world remained safe. He wanted to have the strength to let go of the metal railing and know that his sacrifice would ensure that Steve and Captain America could continue to save the world. He wanted to make it back to Brooklyn the way Steve dreamed they would.

In the end, it was fate that decided who lived or died that day. 

He barely heard the screech of protest from the screws as they lost their hold on the rusty metal over the sound of the wind. His frozen fingers tightened feebly in instinctive protest as the only thing keeping him here, with Steve, began to give way. He met Steve’s eyes for a heartbreaking moment before gravity returned its’ relentless pull and he was falling.

The words he should have said—the words that always got tangled on his tongue at the sight of Steve laughing, fighting, and every tiny, wonderful thing that made Bucky’s heart shiver to life—trailed away in a helpless scream that cut through the icy air like a promise of the pain to come. 

He wondered if Steve heard it cut off when he hit the ground. 

_____________________________________________

 

Consciousness returned in fits and starts in a lingering torment left behind by Zola’s serum.

The image of Steve’s frantic face crouched over him beneath the flickering lights of a emptied bunker. The blue of his eyes was barely visible against the drugs still pumping through his body and Bucky felt something in him lurch when he saw the tear tracks moving through the blood and sweat left behind by their fight. His mouth opened and closed, searching for words his throat couldn’t seem to form when Steve turned and opened his mouth to scream something Bucky couldn’t seem to hear over the rush of his thundering heart.

He blinked and-

A gold and red face plate peeled away to reveal Tony, looking equal parts relieved and nauseous as Bucky’s body was pressed against a rough uniform that covered a chest shuddering like an asthma attack.

He closed his eyes and-

Stared up at Sam, looking pale and somber as he leaned his weight against a bloodied pad to staunch the blood from the bullet wound on his leg. “--too close to the artery! He needs Cho’s machine!”

Then there was nothing but cool darkness.

__________________________________________

Bucky woke alone and in pain. 

The sensation of ice creeping through his veins, of an arm that remained still and lifeless at his side, was so familiar that his breath hitched on a wet sob. 

Please don’t let me be back there. I can’t do it again. I’m not strong enough. _Pleasepleasepleaseplease_

The memories when they returned were a brittle comfort. 

Steve, alive but broken in a way that Bucky didn’t know how to fix. 

And Bucky, alone and longing for something damaged beyond recognition in a hospital bed.

Every broken, shattered piece of his heart twisted and shivered like a needle in a broken compass—unable to find his true north without Steve. He opened his eyes in the same blind panic he’d felt each time he woke up battered and bruised and alone. 

Cream colored walls with cheerful watercolors of flowers marked his location easily enough. Stark had retrofitted four levels of his ridiculous tower after the Battle of New York with the latest medical technologies the day after he renamed it Avenger’s Tower. Each room was outfitted with reinforced walls and specially trained nursing staff that were prepared for everything from brainwashed assassins to Clint’s near-legendary injuries caused by daily activities. 

He tilted his head enough to read the numbers on the small electronic clock. 6:45 pm. So he’d been unconscious for at least fourteen hours. More than enough time to make it back to Avenger’s Tower.

Bucky could probably describe the decorations of each of the overnight suites with perfect accuracy. He’d kept a careful vigil over each member of his team in the months after he began to reclaim his mind from Hydra’s conditioning. Even then, there was a visceral need to protect injured and weakened members of his new team.

That need to protect was a drop in an ocean compared to the all-consuming desire to find Steve and make sure he was okay. To see for himself that Hydra couldn’t hurt him anymore. To prove to himself that he was safe and protected again.

“Easy there,” a low, familiar voice urged from the seat to his right. “You super soldiers never want to take it easy when you’re hurt.”

Bucky glanced over at Sam and gave him a cursory scan for any new injuries. Then he frowned, “What are you doing here?”

“Come on, man. I thought we were friends now.”

Sam’s smile felt brittle and weak compared to the easy confidence that he usually exuded. Bucky eyed the dark circles under his eyes and the stiff set of his shoulders that contradicted his attempts to soothe. A bright white bandage was stark against the warm brown of his skin and he looked exhausted from the day already.

“Why aren’t you with Steve?” The heart monitor made a shrill sound as Bucky processed what would make Sam leave Steve’s side in favor of watching Bucky sleep. “Where is he?”

When he went to sit up, Sam’s hands came down on his shoulders in a firm grip. “Steve’s fine. The doctor’s already cleared him. He’s just…”

Understanding trickled in like a rush of cold water and Bucky took in a slow breath that made the stitches in his side ache. “He’s blaming himself for what happened.”

“Bingo.”

“Where is he?” Bucky asked.

Sam winced, “He refused to stay in his apartment and Fury agreed to keep him under observation.”

Bucky cursed, shoving away Sam’s hand when they tried to keep him from standing up. “They locked him up?! I’ll fucking kill th--”

“It was Steve’s idea. He said he didn’t trust himself without it,” Sam cut in.

“Fuck Steve,” Bucky snarled, “he never passes up a chance to blame himself for someone else’s mistakes.” 

He grabbed at the IV still taped to his right arm and ignored Sam’s squawk of protest when he pulled it out. The puncture would be healed in a less than a minute thanks to the serum. He shifted his legs to the edge of the bed cautiously, testing out the rest of his body’s readiness. He ached like a bruise all over, but he knew better than most that he could manage through the pain.

“Where is he?”

Sam sighed, “You know, I’m supposed to be keeping you here until you’re healed.”

“I’m not letting Steve sit in a cell alone--even if he did ask for it.”

“He’s not alone. Natasha volunteered to watch out for him.”

That eased some of the tension in Bucky’s chest. Natalia would know firsthand what it was like to have your mind taken and twisted for someone else’s gain. More importantly, she wouldn’t let Steve wallow without attempting to knock some sense into him.

Sam pursed his lips when Bucky pulled off the heart monitor and started scanning the room for clothing. He’d find Steve bare assed naked if he needed to, but he preferred to wear some pants. Mind made, Sam leaned over one side of his chair and pulled out a pair of soft sweatpants and a white t-shirt that smelled like Steve. When Bucky looked at him in surprise, Sam rolled his eyes, “What? You thought I’d be surprised that you would ignore all common sense to get to Steve’s side when you woke up?”

“He’d do the same for me.”

“Yeah, we’ve all seen the proof of that,” Sam said, “and I don’t like the thought of Steve locking himself away in self-imposed exile because of Hydra’s bullshit.”

Bucky tugged on the pants quickly, ignoring the burn of his protesting muscles and aching ribs. The shirt was harder and he could feel the sweat trickling down his back by the time he managed to get it over his head. The agony could wait until he saw for himself that Steve was alright.

Sam stood to watch the door and eyes the uniformed security guards waiting just outside. “Officially, I’m supposed to make sure that you remain in bed until you’re cleared by your doctors even though _officially_ , you are not required to remain here. Ross and Fury are just being extra careful after all. However, _unofficially_ ,” he drawled, “I think that’s a load of horse shit.”

Bucky snorted out a surprised laugh and Sam gave him a genuine smile in response.

“So, I’m going to go tell the doctors that I think you’re about to wake up in a few minutes.” He glanced at his watch, “Five minutes to be exact. Sound fair?”

“That’s more than enough,” Bucky replied, “Where’s Steve?”

Sam’s expression went cold and flat. “He’s in the Hulk detainment rooms.”

He didn’t bother to wait for Bucky’s reaction to that piece of news, just slipped out the door and loudly began to chat with the guards on duty. Something about needing a good coffee run. Bucky waited until the voices moved further down the hall before he silently opened the door and went outside.

The few nurses on duty were turned to face the commotion Sam was busy causing further down the hallway and Bucky sent a silent thanks in the other man’s direction. Sam Wilson was a better friend than Bucky deserved even before he became the Winter Soldier. Still, he wasn’t willing to risk getting caught and forced back into the hospital bed because he was waxing poetic on friendship.

He made a mental note to mock Stark mercilessly for how easy it was to make his way past two layers of security to the nearest elevator. Though he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t relieved when Jarvis’ calm voice trickled in through the speakers.

“Sergeant Barnes, I am glad to see you’re feeling well.”

“Thanks, Jarvis,” he muttered and fought the urge to look up at the ceiling. “Can you take me to Steve?”

“Of course, Sergeant Barnes.”

“And...can you make sure no one knows where I’ve gone?”

 

There was a pause. “I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t think anyone will ask me where you’ve gone.” 

The dry sarcasm in the AI’s voice made him swallow a laugh as the elevator hummed into motion. A new wave of pain crested in his aching limbs and Bucky was grateful for the moment to rest his weight against the cool metal wall. Sweat dripped stinging lines along the cuts and scrapes left behind by the fight. Zola’s serum might heal him, but he knew from experience it would focus on the deeper wound before it bothered with those that caused him pain.

A polite chime alerted him that he’d reached the level where Steve was waiting and he tapped the side of the elevator twice in silent thanks. Bucky took another fortifying breath before he limped down the quiet corridor, using the wall for support when he felt dizzy. The adrenaline he needed to ignore his body’s weakness seemed sluggish and drained. Maybe Stark’s doctors had finally figured out the drug cocktails needed to keep him and Steve under.

Movement ahead of him made him slow instinctively until he recognized Nat’s familiar figure. She smiled faintly at him, “James, it’s about time you got here.”

Bucky looked down the hallway to the locked, reinforced doorway behind her. “How is he?”

She blew out a breath that ruffled her bright red hair and crossed her arms over her chest. Her green eyes flicked back down the hallway like she could see where Steve was through the walls. “He’s Steve,” she said with a minute shrug, “So naturally he blames himself for everything.”

“He always was a little too good at the Catholic guilt.”

“He told me he didn’t want to see anyone--he wouldn’t even talk to Sam,” Natasha’s lips flattened into her version of a frown. “I’ve never seen him like this.”

Bucky sighed, rubbing his hand over the ache that hadn’t gone away since he’d woken up in the midst of the helicarrier’s wreckage. He knew better than most the way it felt to come face to face with your sins. Even when they were young, Steve held himself to the sort of rigid moral compass that would make any nun or monk proud. Self control was the foundation of Steve’s identity and was cemented by his sense of justice.

For the first time, Bucky wondered if this was something Steve would ever truly recover from.

Natasha’s expression softened slightly at whatever thoughts she’d read on his. She brushed a hand over his and squeezed gently, “It’ll be good for him to see you. I’ll make sure you have the time you need.”

His throat tightened with a strange mixture of relief and anxiety so he nodded his thanks.

She gave him a small smile and moved past him, leaving the delicate scent of gun oil and cinnamon in her wake. For a moment, Bucky listened to the light sounds of her footsteps fading in the distance and focused on controlling his breathing. He had to be strong now. He couldn’t let his own pain and anger over what had been done hurt Steve.

Silently, he stepped closer to the door and slipped into the room inside.

Stark had done his best to disguise the room’s true purpose from first glance. Some designer had painted the walls in cool greys and hung abstract art pieces in the spaces where windows might have been set, inviting calm introspection instead of panicked claustrophobia. The whole suite was filled with comfortable chairs and couches covered in soft pillows and blankets. It was only if you looked closer to see the subtle ways the furniture had been screwed into the floor and the carefully repaired walls that hid the scars set into the plaster.

The low lighting did little to disguise the figure sitting stiff and silent in the midst of such softness like a jagged knife in the midst of spoons. He was dressed in the same soft white t shirts Bucky had come to associate with him in the modern world though this one hung loose around shoulders that seemed gaunt compared to the broad giant he was used to. Someone must have risked giving him a razor because he was clean shaven once more, although his hair was longer than he would normally allow. 

Steve sat at the edge of the large bed set on a platform in the corner with his eyes fixed on the wood floor. Just the sight of him was enough for Bucky to be able to suck in a breath that he wasn’t aware he was holding. It felt like the ground beneath his feet stabilized around this familiar focal point and Bucky was moving towards him before he could consider any other option. Despite his training, he must have made some sort of noise as he approached because he watched Steve’s shoulders go tight and tense in reaction.

Every inch of him radiated pure misery and regret.

So Bucky sat down on the bed next to Steve, close enough to let their shoulders brush. He could feel the tension in every hard plane of his friend’s body, but didn’t press for more contact. Even that much felt like a gift after the months of agony where he hadn’t been sure if he would ever see Steve alive again. He focused on keeping his breathing steady and even until he could feel Steve following the pattern he set.

Slowly, in minute twitches and steady breaths, tension leaked out of Steve’s body until he was leaning on his forearms against his knees and staring at the floor. Bucky took a chance and gently pressed his palm the the broad muscle of his back. When Steve didn’t protest, he ran his hand in soothing lines like he had when the man beside him was just a boy, sickly and dying of a hundred different pieces of bad luck.

Steve’s chest expanded in a shaky breath and he glanced over at Bucky. “I figured you’d be yelling at me by now,” he said quietly.

Bucky’s hand paused in its’ slow sweep across Steve’s shoulders. “Oh, I plan to.”

“Don’t wait on my account.”

He made a thoughtful noise and let an impish grin twist his lips. “Well, I figured I wouldn’t say anything until you realized that there ain’t no way you’ll win this fight.”

For the first time since he’d walked in, Steve turned to meet his eyes with a frown. “What argument?”

Bucky stared into the familiar blue of his eyes and felt another fractured piece of him settle back into place. It made it easier to push aside the urge to cut a bloody path through anyone associated with Hydra and what had been done to the man at his side. Instead, he kept his face carefully teasing expression he’d perfected in the 1930s.

“The argument that will happened the moment you start trying to convince me that you’re guilty of whatever crimes you committed when you were under Lukin’s control.”

Steve made a derisive sound, “That isn’t your call. I know what I did.”

“Funny,” Bucky said, “That’s not what you thought when I came out of Hydra’s programming.”

The blonde flinched, “That isn’t--”

“It’s exactly the same--you want to blame yourself for everything when the only people to blame are dead in that bunker.” 

Steve jerked away, breathing hard like he was running some sort of race. He glared down at his hands, opening and closing them reflexively. “I can still _remember_ everything,” he whispered, “even though I wish to God I didn’t.”

“It wasn’t you, Stevie. It wasn’t you making those decisions.”

“It was me.” Steve’s voice was raw with grief, “I can remember the sounds your bones made when I broke them. I remember the way you looked at me before I beat you into unconsciousness and the fuckin’ pleasure I felt that I would be completing the mission to kill the man I--”

His frantic words cut off on a ragged sound and he made an aborted gesture with his hands like he was trying to slam them into the muscles of his thigh. Bucky caught them instinctively, holding tight for the brief moment when he tried to resist. Steve’s knuckles were still bruised and battered by the fight in the bunker and Bucky winced at the reminder of how much damage the serum was attempting to heal before starting on superficial wounds. 

“You have lived for almost one hundred years, Steven Grant Rogers,” Bucky said slowly, letting each word fill the void between them like it could build a bridge to cross the gap. “You spent your whole life standing up to anyone who dared to use their size or power to harm others. You have sacrificed your body, your happiness, and your life over and over again to try to make the world better than it was before.” Steve took a shuddering breath like he was planning to argue, but Bucky ignored him. His fingers traced over the damage done to his knuckles in feather-light brushes. 

Bucky took a deep breath and forced the next words out. “And for nearly a year, you were completely helpless against the kinds of monsters you’ve fought your entire life to destroy. They took everything that was good and kind in you and tried to smother it under a special kind of evil.”

“They succeeded.”

Shaking his head, Bucky tightened his hold on Steve’s battered hands and waited until Steve met his eyes. “You fought them, Stevie. You fought them the whole time and I saw you do it. Your handler wanted us dead in Bulgaria, but you made sure that me and Sam survived the attack even though you knew you would be punished. Lukin ordered you to kill me in the bunker and you fought the order like the stubborn son of a bitch you’ve always been.”

Steve’s eyes gleamed wetly in the low light of the room and Bucky watched him swallow hard. He tried to remember the last time he’d seen Steve look so vulnerable. 

“I still hurt you, Bucky. I could have killed you--I _almost_ did.”

“When I needed you, you were there, Steve,” Bucky let out a rough curse, “Hell, you wouldn’t have even been there if you hadn’t tried to be noble back in the helicarrier.”

A ghost of a smile twitched at Steve’s lips. “Still mad about that, huh?”

“Oh, I intend to kick your ass for that later. Once we’ve both slept for a few days.”

Steve nodded and seemed to sag again like he didn’t have the strength to stay upright. A fragile peace filled the silence between them. 

Bucky opened his mouth to ask if Steve was hungry, but what came out was, “Did you mean it?”

Blue eyes flicked to him warily and he swallowed hard.

“Mean what?”

“Before...I fell in the escape pod. Did you mean what you said to me?” Bucky whispered, “That you loved me.”

Steve’s jaw tightened and Bucky watched him life his chin like he was preparing for a blow. Like he did each time he stepped into a fight he knew he wouldn’t win. “Yes. I meant every word.”

“Do you still mean it?”

“Bucky--I nearly killed you!”

“Do you still love me?”

Steve stood in a burst of barely controlled energy, pacing away from him and raking his fingers through his hair until it stood up in tousled waves. His eyes looked bright, feverish, as he glared down at Bucky like he was insane. “ _I tried to kill you!_ ”

Bucky forced himself to shrug. “Seems to be a common thing in our relationship. Does that mean you didn’t forgive me for what I did in Washington? For what I did for Hydra?”

“Of course not.”

“So why is it different for you?” Bucky pressed.

“Because I--I should have fought harder!” Steve snarled, “I gave up and they broke me. I let them break me.”

“You are not invincible, Steve. Hydra had years to learn how to tear down and rebuild a human being. It isn’t your fault. None of this is your fault.”

Steve whirled on him, crowding him with his body until Bucky had to choose to lean back or let Steve press against him. He looked desperate, frantic for the kind of reassurances that Bucky was scrambling to provide. “How am I supposed to live with these memories in my head? How am I supposed to pretend to be Captain America when all I can think about is how they called me the Nomad because I belonged to no one?”

Moving instinctively, Bucky grabbed Steve’s hands as they gestured wildly and pulled until Steve sank heavily back onto the bed. Gently, reverently, Bucky pressed his lips against every dark mark and scar that marred an artist’s hands. He could feel the weight of Steve’s eyes on him, could hear the way he was holding his breath like he expected Bucky to turn away in disgust. 

“So we make new memories,” he murmured against his skin, “Better memories. We keep living and breathing and trying until one day it isn’t a struggle to look at the scars from our past.”

Slowly, Bucky released Steve’s hands in favor of curling into the welcome heat of Steve’s chest and wrapping his arms around him. He let the familiar scent of soap and something deeper, almost intangible that was uniquely _Steve_ seep into his lungs like a promise. Against him, Steve was barely breathing. 

Stubbornly, he wrapped his arms tighter around the mass of guilt and muscle like he was the last anchor keeping him from spinning out in space. He shoved away the voice in his head that whispered, _you don’t deserve this and you’ll only hurt him in the end_ , and focused on the bone-deep certainty that this, this was exactly where he would live and die and die again to stay.

Steve’s body relaxed in tiny, infinitesimal degrees that Bucky waited out with the patience that he never managed with anyone else. His Stevie was always stubborn and the reappearance of that stubborn willpower that refused to stay down even when he was black and blue was oddly comforting. It meant his Steve was still alive and fighting to do the right thing instead of falling into the black pit that the Chair seemed to create.

It took years, eons, an eternity, before a soft, shuddering breath of air brushed across Bucky’s right shoulder and Steve sagged against him. The sensation was so much like the moments of peace before the war that Bucky blinked burning eyes against the bittersweet feeling of Steve letting Bucky take care of him. If he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend he still cradled the frail body of a boy held together with little more than spite and spirit.

Steve’s nose pressed against the skin of Bucky’s neck like he could hide from the world there and Bucky tilted his head until he could tuck his chin against the burnished gold of his hair. His fingers found purchase carding through the long strands and he felt more than heard the last of Steve’s ragged control slip away at the sensation. He made a quiet sound that made Bucky’s heard twist in his chest.

“I’ve got you, Stevie,” he promised, murmuring wordless sounds of comfort against the soft cotton of Steve’s shirt, “You’re safe now. I’ve got you. This won’t be our end of the line.”

The room fell silent aside from the near silent tears now streaming down Steve’s cheeks and soaking into the fabric of his shirt and the sound of Bucky’s rusty attempts at comfort. Strong hands found their anchors against the scarred skin of Bucky’s back and they let the touch ground them both in the present. Every aching bruise and cut felt washed away in the perfect clarity of this moment. Together.

It was a long, long time before either of them spoke. If he weren’t enhanced, if he weren’t pressed so tightly against each other, Bucky might not have heard Steve whisper into the soft skin of his shoulder, “I meant it. Every word.”

Joy and peace like he’d never known surged through his veins like a drug and he felt his muscles bunch with the burning need to crawl inside the warmth of Steve’s skin and never leave. His bones felt like they were breaking and forming anew, settling into the perfect reality of this moment. Of Steve being alive and his for the first time in his life and for the rest of their lives.

He didn’t have to think when the words came, just let them fall from his lips like a benediction to ward off the sins that scarred their souls. 

“I love you, Steve Rogers.”

_____________________________________________________________________

 

That night Bucky dreamed of a freight car barreling down a icy track and hands gripping an iron rail with slowly dwindling strength. 

This time, when he fell, Steve was there to catch him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so ends my first dive into Stucky fan fiction.
> 
> This story originally started due to my love of writing moments where classically 'good' characters are forced to face their darkest fears. For Bucky, it was losing Steve as his anchor in a world where he was scarred and broken after his time under Hydra's control. For Steve, it was losing his self control and the ability to remain true to his own moral compass. I initially wanted to write a separate story with the explanations for each of the trigger words and connect them to sweet memories in Bucky's past, but eventually the ideas combined into the fic you see here.
> 
> Thank you so much for taking the time to read, leave kudos, and especially comments for me to grin at every time my muse tried to sneak away. You're wonderful. 
> 
> I just registered to write for the 2019 Reverse Bang and hope to have a few fun AUs (Food Trucks and Mafia Bucky included) uploaded soon so please check back if you've enjoyed The Memory of Us!


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